Outrider
by Pippit
Summary: The land of Zion trembles against a vivid backdrop of turmoil, chaos, and war. Blood waters the soil and paints the skies a bright red each night, as if waiting for redemption. Amidst epicurean betrayals and political intrigue, Courier Six vanishes and is proclaimed dead by the militaristic NCR. But to some, not all of the cards have been dealt. F!Courier/Joshua Graham
1. Prologue

The cavern felt cool and dim, its rocky walls dripping with fresh moisture. Shiny droplets clung to the tightly coiled stalactites like the collective beards of wizened men, their filmy silhouettes moving this way and that in the flickering torchlight, as if they were graceful dancers performing elegant pirouettes for the moon.

Bluish-purple moss padded the uneven ground, their vibrant sprigs muffling any footsteps to be heard otherwise. Large strips of tanned hide were formed into makeshift partitions, crudely enclosing the murky grottos with secluded alcoves shaded by giant green ferns and columns of winding grey stalagmites.

Braziers and rusted sconces hung near the natural arches that served as doors, their copper flames licking at the dampness with a prodding timidness serviceable. Pink stalks of fungi and misshapen holes in the ceiling provided motes of dusty light where it was needed in the more primitive areas of the cave.

Hand-painted murals were smeared all over the luminescent walls. They were done artfully, precisely, and with a startling attention to detail, displaying various scenes of battle, wisdom, and vivid trysts that were coarse enough to make the hardiest person blush with warmth.

But the most prominent painting was of a man, which seemed to be everywhere at once, and yet also kept to the murky shadows so that only glimpses were caught at passing. He was starkly wrapped in bone-white bandages from head to foot, resembling a wrathful spectre bent on something otherworldly and unattainable. Crimson blood wept from his ice-blue eyes in twin rivers as he slaughtered those around him with a self-righteous expression and flaming shortsword borne from the wroth of the heavens.

Natives stealthily moved in the darkness. Their bodies were lithe and nut-brown from living out in the warm climes, thick whorls of colourful paste drawn on their faces and limbs in intricate patterns. Many wore no clothes, and went naked instead. Most of them were women and young children, although a few wore feathered headdresses and loincloths to denote their importance. Those who were dressed more modestly were the hunters and forward scouts, garbing themselves with festive amber jewellery, bone piercings, and peeled skins of the dead animals that they feasted upon.

A girl crept onwards, rolls of linen in one hand and a clay bowl consisting of tepid water in the other. It was from the little spring outside, tasting of metallic rock and bitter earth. But its properties were good, she decided, able to make the sick warriors strong again. Those that drank the sacred water were trustworthy friends. And, likewise, any who refused became enemies of the tribe.

It was simple, as Joshua always patiently explained to them, time and time again. The girl blushed a deep scarlet, quietly thinking of him with a sweet gentleness and a hidden smile dredged up from the spirit of her untroubled soul.

He spoke their language fluidly—effortlessly, even, yet they knew nothing of his own mangled tongue beyond some meagre words that were rarely spoken around the campfires at night. A privileged few Joshua taught when there was spare time, but she hadn't been chosen with such a valuable gift. As the shaman's daughter she had other responsibilities and duties that came before pleasantries.

She was clad only with a ragged hide between her lanky legs. A primitive necklace of teeth and feathers was laid over her budding breasts, covering her bare nipples to signify the importance that she held in the hierarchy of the tribe. One day she would enter into the sacred covenant of marriage, bearing strong sons so that the Dead Horses could continue their legacy. Her heartbeat nearly burst with anticipated pride, thinking of the moment and strengthening her resoluteness.

Yet as of the present, only one man had completely captivated her maturing attention. She was hardly the single female to become infatuated—nor the last—but their suitor seemingly cared not for them, ignoring their plights and desperate ventures for his unwinnable regard. He was too absorbed with his books and foreign weapons that no one was allowed to touch. As an expert in bloodshed, warfare, and wisdom, those lofty goals took all of his allotted time.

Or so Joshua said.

Yet they did not love the Burned Man for how he looked. In contrast, the girl thought him to be quite hideous beneath his bandages. It was not known for certain, though, as he always changed them alone in the comforting solitude of the caverns. No—the dangerous attraction sparked from his willing spirit, his ability to inspire hope and patience, and his beautiful, beautiful eyes. The lattermost were completely unique, different from anything that she had seen before in Zion.

 _Blue_ , the girl thought, _like the holy waters._ Her tribe had brown eyes, as if mimicking the soul of the earth; warm, almond-shaped, and soft in the gentle sunlight. His were fiery, consuming, and chips of steel that could suddenly become inhospitable without reason. They were intoxicating to her. She felt able to drown in them for months on end without anything else as a form of sustenance. Indeed, whenever a glance was spared at her direction a strange shiver went down the length of her backside with a ghostly touch.

He rarely spoke to her. And when he did, it was merely a customary greeting, his voice the strong and powerful timbre that had commanded legions out of nothing but respect for the authority he held above them.

Once, when she'd been quiet enough, she had come across him reading aloud next to his folded bedroll. It had been something called _Lateen_ , she decided uncertainly. The words sounded melodious and thick, rolling off his burned lips with each pained syllable.

He would read to them in the evenings with the Good Book, if there was spare time, but this had been a different novel. Joshua had looked personal, morbid, and darkly agitated. She'd merely left then, afraid of inciting his anger for being an intruder on such an intimate scene, and scared of what hateful spirits from his past that he was summoning.

The girl smiled on her past reflections. Foolish

It wasn't long before she reached where Joshua kept his quarters, secluded from the others in a narrower part of the caves. It was his own choice at first, where meditation and fasting had been a priority to regain control of something unmentioned—eventually, though, it simply cemented the Dead Horses' admiration further, until he became an omnipotent demi-god, unwavering and protective despite his protests at their blatant worship.

He was cleaning the strange metal weapons he owned that were laid out on a makeshift table, going over each one systematically with precise, clean movements. Behind him was his bedroll, stacks of leather-bound books, and a large fire with a pre-war chair hovering next to it almost uncertainly.

She never understood why he tolerated the flames after the fell deeds which had happened to him, even if she only caught traces of the details from his mishap. The girl could see the pain reflecting in his eyes whenever he glanced at the ashes, as did the others—but it was never spoken to him, and the issue remained quiet like beaten headstones.

He looked up from his task as she entered, wordless. She walked over to him, barefoot, slipping past the foreign workbenches and metal shelves that littered the area. The girl moved with a graceful delicateness that she prided herself upon, holding back a gentle smile.

When Joshua had first come to them she'd acted shyly, uncertain of what the strange man would think of her. There were rumours of his fragmented past, flung about the camps at odd times of the day like miserable scraps—rumours that he'd been brutal and done horrible, unforgivable things to innocents.

The girl did not believe it. She could not. He had never once mistreated her, and she would hiss in anger when the false stories were heard.

She set the linens and bowl down, watching inquisitively with a shrewd gaze. Joshua, without warning, suddenly cocked one of the weapons, making her start backwards in surprise. "Sorry," she chattered, her native tongue flying thick and fast as she babbled apologetic nonsense for her wrongdoings.

Joshua watched her a moment, silent before he nodded and said, "Thank you."

He tilted his head in such a way that made her heartbeat thud faster until she felt light-headed and sick. There was a raw, primal part inside of her that wished he would take off his bandages so he could have his way with her any direction he liked. Then she would be able to stare endlessly into those captivating eyes without a single thought more.

But those were impure actions. Joshua talked about them oftentimes, gently chiding the tribe for indulging in adultery and bad activities. Besides, the girl scolded, rallying together her feminine strength of will, she was most likely to be promised to Follows-Chalk. If he didn't wander off to fulfills his fetishes with items from the Back-When, never to return.

She blushed, looking at the man so close to her through her quivering black lashes. The girl wondered if Joshua would ever find someone else, a mate to satiate himself upon in the auras of worldly pleasure. Here would not do, as much as it pained her to admit the truth. He had already rejected too many handsome women that offered themselves, nearly insulting them with his blunt answers. All that was left were the animals—or, perhaps, the Sorrows—but she did not think him that sort of man.

She scooted away, knowing he was curious as to why she still lingered. At length he seemed to guess her thoughts, for his face quickly morphed into a brooding expression as he gave her a pointed gaze that became far more cutting than words ever could. Even though she knew it was warm inside the cavern, all she felt was a sharp chill.

"I am sorry," the girl responded hastily, apologising to him with wide eyes and parted mouth, her cheeks aflame at being caught redhanded like a babe. Turning on her heels, she fled from the Burned Man's stare and thinned lips for the relief of escape.

He was alone, going back to his guns and consuming thoughts of god-given justice.


	2. Chapter 1

Follows-Chalk bit his lip, more than a little uncertain as he stared up at the merciless blue dome of the crisp autumn skies. It was slowly nearing late afternoon, and the hot sun beat down upon him in shining golden spears of shafted light. He had to squint his eyes together to see the lush landscape that was spread out before him like a natural feast. Carefully nestled in amidst a shaded alcove of stirring grey-green sentinels and honeycombed ledges, he knew the recluse area wouldn't stay shaded for much longer.

The tribe needed meat and furs. Bighorners were the easiest and most ample game in Zion to hunt, supplying the native tribes with what they sought; and as it was breeding season there was no concern of depleting an overzealous stock of horny mating animals. So they sent out both hunters and trackers to gather what they could in light of the coming winter.

Follows-Chalk was not quite one or the other. Young and strong, his duties were to search for the painted symbols on rocks and follow them to good hunting spots, leading the way for his hardy, silent superiors. He was particularly adept in the skill, though oftentimes he found it a worthless and mundane affair, and felt quite conflicted at how he was blandly ascribed to a name without his assent.

When there was time, Follows-Chalk would travel to the Back-When areas, digging through old wooden boxes and admiring the picturesque views with a sense of relative peace. He knew why the neighbouring tribes were apprehensive of the forgotten places and marked them as taboo out of fear; but skeletons were skeletons, and no spirits haunted him at night when he slept beneath the stars. Only the tiny bones of children were saddening, although Joshua had tried to persuade him that they were just small people.

He smiled. The Burned Man meant well, but he didn't know everything. _I am not so naive,_ Follows-Chalk thought proudly. He slipped down from his perch like a darting shadow, and walked for quite a ways before suddenly stumbling across a pair of footprints that caught his attention. They paraded back and forth in a bizarre, zigzag manner of sorts, the imprints both shallow and dragging up against uprooted pebbles.

It was a woman, he decided, and from the awkward haste and drying blood spatters she was badly wounded. Follows-Chalk quietly set down the hides he'd been carrying which were strung onto his lithe back, and tried to conceal the frown that disfigured his aquiline face. The female certainly didn't belong to the White Legs, as they didn't wear shoes, and were cravenly enough that they had no courage to venture so close to the Dead Horses' main camp.

The rose-coloured rocks warmed Follow-Chalk's feet as he followed the tracks with curiosity and a naive touch of impatience, doubling back at a wide-banked stream when he temporarily lost the difficult trail. Sunning geckos lazily watched him from afar on a crested hill as he paused for breath beneath a mesquite tree, feeling alarm when he saw another pair of footmarks absorbing into the former, these male and heavy.

It was a pursuit, Follows-Chalk realised. The local fauna was carelessly trampled on and cut at with a blade, and the blood spatters were becoming more and more pronounced. He was beginning to reach one of the passageways leading out of Zion into foreign territory when he heard a gunshot go off, the echo almost deafening as it sharply bounced around the striped canyon walls like a mocking facsimile of the original.

He jumped as if he'd been electrified, sprinting rashly towards the sound in a heedless dash of adrenaline and courage. He knew that the entire tribe would likely disapprove of his hasty decision—but Joshua wouldn't. And that was enough to spur him further onwards.

Follows-Chalk slowed his pace as he reached a curved, moon-like ridge that was overflowing with fragrant banana yucca and flowering cacti. He cautiously eyed the rickety wood-and-rope bridge which swayed gently in the warm breeze. A slight movement made him peer downwards into the river beneath the steep overpass, his body poised and at the ready for a fight. There was no need for combat, however. For a few precious seconds he stood there, dumbly, before climbing down towards the quivering stream, his makeshift javelin within grasp.

Cold, cold water soothed his legs as he crept noiselessly through the river. Dace and rainbow trout swam around in nonsensical circles , the sunlight glistening on their metallic scales in quick flashes of iridescent brightness which seemed to swallow them whole as they went about their fishy business.

Follows-Chalk swallowed thickly when he saw a young woman slouched against the pebbled riverbed. Her breathing was slight and shallow, and fresh blood coated her in a menagerie of varying hues of crimson. A rare sort of sadness rapidly blossomed throughout his chest when he drew closer, watching. He tossed his spear onto the opposite bank, certain that there was no current threat.

He was not afraid to admit she was beautiful.

Her skin was tawny and sun-kissed, and her curly hair, though dirty and matted, held a striking caramel-coloured hue—it reminded him of the cliffs surrounding them when the sun was rising from its nest. Her doe eyes were a deep honey-brown that he found oddly bewitching; there were golden flecks in them, flashing dangerously with the full depth of agony as she shakily held a 10mm pistol in one hand.

She was like a golden songbird, deeply wounded but heartbreakingly beautiful all the same.

"Are you okay?" Follows-Chalk asked, speaking the foreign tongue of the _owslandrs_. His heart swelled when he spoke the correct words without too much difficulty. Joshua would have been proud were he there, as Eenglish was a rather hard language to master.

"Lanius. . ." she said softly, hand gripping her side in pain as she weakly motioned towards a corpse on the ground a few feet away. It was the male, he surmised, garbed in gaudy colours and dressed from head-to-foot in brownish-gold metal that reminded him of shiny brass keys.

"No," Follows-Chalk responded, shaking his head slowly and tapping his own muscled breast for emphasis. "I am Follows-Chalk. I track for the Dead Horses. You seem wounded, my friend. Are you a trader?" He saw no bags or satchels nearby overflowing with strange trinkets, but that meant nothing.

"No—" She coughed violently, her petite body trembling from the monumental effort as red spittle dribbled from her mouth in the slow cascade of a glistening stream. "Lanius. . . dead?" She dipped her head at the carcass, falling to the ground with a heavy splash.

The woman had to be hurt a good lot. "I do believe that he's not breathing," Follows-Chalk announced, although he walked over to make sure of his claims.

For a fleeting moment the young scout regretted throwing his spear away in his excitement, and felt for the knife-stone hanging at his hip; but a quick glance proved no cause for worry. The dead man's throat had been sliced open in a savage manner, revealing peeled layers of jagged flesh and coagulated mixtures of brown.

It turned his stomach sour as he moved back to the woman, and crouched down beside her in the cool shadows. Follows-Chalk stared at her, his eyes wide and glossy like fledging chestnuts in the summer rains. "Were you ambushed?" he asked, stuttering over the words as he touched her leather-clad shoulder with knotted fingers.

She nodded, a weak laugh becoming stuck in her throat. "I . . . I guess he didn't plan on making good his promise."

Follows-Chalk swallowed again, blinking. "It does not seem to be a good promise in the first place, then, my friend."

Another laugh burst from her cracked lips, this one half-crazed and full of a dark amusement. "I suppose not."

"You are burned," Follows-Chalk observed, gazing at her exposed skin with an anxious, indiscernible look. "I know a man—he will want to see you. He was also burned, but very, very badly. He can help. Good medicine. Good faith."

She blinked woozily and said nothing, her eyelids fluttering back and forth like the beating wings of butterflies. She suddenly grabbed onto one of his tattooed hands with surprising strength before placing something hard, cold, and metallic into his palms.

"What. . .?" Follows-Chalk tried to give the object back, but was dismayed to find the woman already becoming unconscious upon the rapid, swift breeze of blissful inertia.

 _"Et tu, Brutus?"_ The woman sputtered with a raspy breath. "What is the—the worth of . . . of a man but the word he holds?" She then closed her eyes and said nothing more.

Follows-Chalk clicked his tongue. She hardly weighed anything in his strong arms, and offered no protest except a soft noise of pain when he lifted her upwards in a swooping motion. Blood started to seep out of her at an alarming rate from the disturbances of movement, and as he had no experience with healing, all he could do was apply pressure.

Panic of an unaccustomed nature surged through Follows-Chalk as he waded across the river and retrieved his makeshift spear. The woman went limp in his struggling grasp, as if accepting the static fate of being comatose. Her bloodied feet dragged across the tumbling waters, creating lively ripples that surrounded them in an outwards circle.

He made for the main camp as quickly as possible, despairing of being too late and getting set upon hungry cazadors or White Legs. Such was his paranoia, that Follows-Chalk was not certain of keeping the woman alive should anything jump out at him from the murky hollows or crevasses that he passed. As it was, nothing bothered him, and he couldn't hear anything abnormal except for his own heavy breathing.

She weighed as much as a feather, but after a while his steps faltered on the winding uphill pathways from constant exertion, and his limbs turned to a solid, mind-numbing lead that burned and pulled at his muscles like the liquid spines of fire.

Sunset was fast approaching, and to Follow-Chalk's vast, ever-deepening relief, he finally saw the familiar twinkle of rustic bonfires and tepees in the distance just as twilight was descending over the canyons with the swift paint strokes of an inky blackness that swallowed the trees and wrecked boats in a swathe of starry velvet.

Two sentries dressed in striped hides and amber necklaces greeted him by a large ringed cluster of flickering torches. They appeared to be deep in the middle of a heated argument concerning polished spears, caches, and weapon rituals, but they quickly drew up short when they saw what the young scout was carrying in his arms.

"Warn Joshua," Follows-Chalk garbled hurriedly in his native tongue. "It's an emergency—quickly!" He savoured the look of shock on their garish faces as one took off like a demon, and the other lifted a creamy shell to their lips and blew with all the might of that fabled battle in Jericho.

Follows-Chalk's feet felt heavier with each step, but he refused to give up despite the acrid stench wafting from the woman. He berated any person that came too close, warning them away with harsh murmurs so that a loose ring of curiosities formed around him instead when he briefly paused at his destination—Angel's Cave.

"Follows-Chalk!" A Dead Horse disciple pushed his way through the ragtag crowd and pointed a decorated staff at the culprit in suspicion. "What is the meaning of this commotion?" His vitriolic gaze shifted to the female. "And who is that?"

"An innocent—Joshua must see her," Follows-Chalk replied urgently, bowing his head with respect. Sweat had drenched his nut-brown skin in simmering, oily hues, making him glisten in the flushed eventide. "She is injured. I do not know the damage."

The disciple pulled back as if he'd been bitten. "I see," he replied, before jabbering off to those congregated in the throngs. They quickly parted like the waves of an unruly sea, his flamboyant headdress—which consisted of rich gemstones, plumed feathers, and soft furs—swinging this way and that in mesmerizing waves of homespun material.

"The outlander will see the Good Man, then."

Follows-Chalk nodded as he stepped aside, making his way into the caverns. It felt like a true blessing to him. He strode through the dank passageways, glad enough to know that he wouldn't get lost inside the labyrinthian corridors.

Tunnels and wormholes snaked off to either side, their gaping holes reverberating with the shuffling noises of natives moving about. He barely spared a glance for anything as he stormed into Joshua's secluded quarters. Hanging braziers that swung near the entrance threw his copper silhouette upon the walls to make looming monsters.

He was pleased to find that Graham was waiting for him. In the guttering torchlight the Burned Man looked truly grim, like a spectre of death. And, perhaps, he was.

"Did you call the healer?" Joshua asked, setting out an assortment of clay bowls and dried herbs. He motioned to a small table set near his workshop, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt as his blue eyes coolly appraised the unconscious female.

"She will know," Follows-Chalk responded, dumping the woman onto the table in a rush. His muscles screamed with relief as he took a deep breath. "I found her out in the wilds while I was exploring. She kept ta—"

"English, please." Joshua took out a sharp-looking knife, its edge flashing wickedly in the dimness. He deftly slid it against her armour, then suddenly froze, his body stiffening with discomfort as his gaze glanced over the woman once again. "She is burned."

"Yes." Follows-Chalk frowned, switching back over to Eenglish. It was hard to speak the dialect, sometimes, as Graham usually insisted that he use the longer words which were impossible to pronounce in his presence. "She also tried to give me this."

He delicately handed Joshua what the woman had all but shoved into his hands. There hadn't been time to look at it earlier, so he gazed at it with fresh, curious eyes.

It was a small golden coin, he saw, with ribbed sides that were weathered from time and great lengths of use. He could faintly make out a dancing bull prancing across its tinny surface.

The room turned to freezing temperatures as Joshua glared at him. It was a look that Follows-Chalk had never seen before. He didn't take the item, but simply stood there with ice-blue eyes that resembled frosted glass shards; it was both menacing and somehow pitiable to observe.

Follows-Chalk swallowed, fidgeting nervously beneath the sweltering gaze. "She wasn't alone," he confessed, feeling very much like a guilty child would. "There was a huge metal man—dead. He—he had a funny helmet." He mimed large horns atop his head.

For a long, taut moment nothing happened, the tension in the air growing thicker and thicker until Follows-Chalk felt that he could no longer breathe without passing out.

"I will tend to her," Joshua slowly responded, turning away with a peculiar coldness. "Then you will take me to this dead man." His harsh voice brooked no argument, sounding rough and oddly savage. He paused, then quickly ripped away the last remnants of the female's underclothes.

Follows-Chalk nodded, and feeling that he was no longer wanted, left the cavern with a hanging head and burning cheeks.


	3. Chapter 2

_**A/N:** Thank you for the reviews and follows! They're greatly appreciated. This chapter is very . . . angsty, I guess? High school me loved the awkwardness. All of it. _

* * *

When Annika awoke, it was by the odd, rushing sensation of strong narcotics slowly wearing off from her bodily system with the traces of a loveless euphoria. A sense of lingering calmness had replaced the feeling, instead, tingling her senses like frothy waves lapping against a distant, grainy shore, their languid strokes both long and deep. She could taste the vague sweetness broiling on her tongue as if it were a caramelised cake, and not cut-off pain relievers sending a forlorn adieu.

Her large brown curls had been gently tied back with a pink threadbare ribbon, its frilly edges fastened in an efficient, secure knot made by practiced fingers of an unknown variety. It was worrisome, at first, as Annika could not remember anyone tying her hair back before, especially not in so kindly a manner.

 _Enough of that,_ Annika thought chidingly, her small hands curling into childlike fists. _No more of feeling terribly for yourself._

She made herself focus on the weighty sensation of woollen blankets loosely draped over her resting form as she had slept on the ground, unmoving. It was a welcome relief, providing an ample amount of distraction from her innermost emotions that had been created by an intimate conflict of nature.

Cool air brushed against her clammy skin in harsh whispers whenever Annika moved, proving that she was completely naked beneath the rustling covers. It brought a vibrant blush to her face, staining her cheekbones with innocent splotches of embarrassment. Clean white bandages had been tightly wrapped around her small wrists, left side, and lower back, restraining her movements in a sore manner of irksome necessity as Annika sat upright with flaming cheeks and a tender awareness of her current surroundings.

She clutched the blankets to her chest at a desperate attempt for some unclaimed modesty, but found it to be pointless, as she was quite alone inside a medium-sized cavern filled with metal shelves, greasy workshops, and endless boxes of pre-war junk that were littered everywhere underfoot amidst gleaming wires of a notorious attitude. It reminded her of the more chaotic scrapheaps in Novac.

Annika relaxed, although only slightly as her doe-brown eyes took in everything with a wondrous gaze bursting from curiosity and apprehension. Those unfathomable depths sparkled and simmered with a chaste, if not wary, rareness that largely enveloped her in a shimmering atmosphere of sweetness, illuminating the naive purity with which her young soul resonated, as of yet untouched from the harsh wastelands.

 _I must be feverish,_ Annika thought, feeling her forehead with the back of a sweaty hand. She had been sleeping in a wrinkled blue bedroll that smelled of a faint muskiness and simmering heat. This was not the first time she had awoken in a strange place, completely bare and vulnerable, albeit the nauseous feeling of disorientation which accompanied her wakefulness was rather new.

At least there wasn't any nightmares, yet the tradeoff seemed to be in the form of a missing white-haired doctor with patient explanations and a sympathetic smile borne from her unfortunate circumstances.

She gathered up the lengthy folds of the blankets into a makeshift dress and stood, only to fall back down again in a graceless heap of long, willowy limbs. Annika grumbled beneath her breath and moved forwards twice, thrice, before finally managing to extricate herself from the graceless entanglement.

 _There_ , Annika thought, wrapping the blankets around her breasts. She ignored the pain which lanced through her with sharp, rapping protests, and moved ahead to where a workshop was perched on the precipice of a small overhang. It seemed to be in disarray, cluttered up with the shiny cogs and inner workings of pistols which were unraveled in varying stages of shambles.

Annika reached out a delicate hand, her fingertips gently tracing the endless maple stocks jumbled here and there beside the haphazard piles of dishevelment. She frowned, pursing her small lips as she bent closer to pick up one of the gutted weapons, her hair falling in loose cascades over her left shoulder as the pink ribbon fluttered to the ground in soft, lazy whirls, unheeded.

The warmth of a nearby lantern outlined her figure, suffusing her tawny skin in rich hues of golden silk and illuminating her champagne-coloured eyes with a vibrancy otherwise unknown to the impurities of mankind. She was like a bemused fawn; dappled, airy, and glimmering in the iridescent candlelight.

Annika heard footsteps and withdrew, stumbling over her feet in a clumsy attempt at control as she slowly raised the pistol with both hands. She swung and pointed it to the immediate right, where there was a gaping entrance half-hidden in the turbid shadows of stalagmites and bushy ferns. The rustling soon increased, growing louder and louder until a strange silhouette detached itself from the others with a lightness before creeping forwards at a loping gait.

Annika shrieked and pulled the trigger, but she only heard a hollow, metallic click in its place as she looked away from fright. A staccato rhythm of adrenaline pounded inside her ears like a massive spine-tingling tsunami, making her heartbeat swoop and flutter with irregular flashes of heat.

Too late she realised that her weapon was rather useless due to its incomplete state of disregard. Slowly, Annika blinked back unshed tears and hesitantly raised her head as a faint high-pitched scream sounded off below her, as if from the guttural depths of a well. She hastily dropped the ineffective pistol and stared at a girl who seemed not much younger than her.

She had been holding a ceramic bowl of dried herbs, and had promptly tossed it aside in favour of yelling unintelligible nonsense. The girl clutched at her trembling mouth and swiftly ran back the way that she had arrived, her dark eyes wild with an unknown passion as she waved her arms about. It scared Annika as war-drums and shouts began to stir from the corridors within.

She snatched the closest thing to her—which happened to be a leather-bound book when she gave it a cursory glance—and fled in the opposite direction, the blankets falling in a puddle of neglected fabric as she darted out into the farthest tunnel, grateful that there was an impromptu escape so readily available.

Time seemed to evade her as Annika sprinted this way and that, her maddened dash only seeming to result in countless dead-locks, and stagnant pools of cave water which were closed off by recluse stalactites that shunned the very touch of sunlight. It was a labyrinth of wet, winding walls, dripping moisture, and dramatic impasses that seemed laughable and diluted in hindsight.

Frustration bubbled at the back of her throat, coming out as a hoarse cry that was tempered with the droning subtleties of mortal despair. Annika shook her head desperately, listening to the drums and inhuman shouts which were getting louder with each passing minute, and which seemed unavoidable in their eventual collision.

She was afraid. She did not want to die—especially not here, in a foreign cave-like place full of strange things and oddly dressed people who were apparently obsessed with malfunctioning pistols. But as she was unable to process anything other than her fight-or-flight routines, any logical reason quickly changed itself into a circumstantial fear without permission, and everything was now perceived to be in flourishing hues far more sinister than their true uncloaked appearance.

And so Annika ran, and she kept running until her limbs began to quiver like untested soldiers in preparation of a coming battle. The noises were almost upon her, ceaselessly bearing down in crashing waves of terrifying gibberish that left her speechless and incapable of proper thought. Such was her attention focused on the commotions being brought up behind her, that as she sharply turned another corner, she fully collided against nut-brown body dressed in animalistic skins and a pre-war baseball cap stuffed with feathers and scraps of mismatched cloth.

"Hoi, yo—"

Instincts took over, and Annika smacked him with the book as hard as she could in a swinging uppercut. She stifled a shriek, watching the man groan and sink to the floor with a bloodied nose before she heedlessly dashed over him and finally burst outside through a narrowing gap in the caverns which was caught at a distraught glance.

A strangled gasp left her lips as she staggered beside an outcropping of grey-green pines, the hot yellow sun nearly blinding her in its attempts at cheeriness before mellowing out into the wine-kissed palettes of a languid evening. It was a sweet, sweet brilliance, enough to make her stop and pause with the blissful moments of a rapturous freedom.

Annika pressed the book to her chest, letting the golden sunshafts caress her chartreuse skin with a relieved look suspended on her handsome face. A gentle breeze tousled her curls, lifting them upwards to the ever-changing skies in swirling, untamed eddies of precarious flight. She could smell the acrid, smokey stench of untold campfires on the wind, and for the briefest of seconds, she felt calm and peaceful.

All too soon was her respite interrupted when the war-drums made themselves heard once again in a swooping crescendo, this time accompanied by the coupled noises of yells and presumed curses. Annika swiftly opened her eyes, not realising that she had closed them in the first place. Her fear of being discovered returned tenfold with the hazardous situation.

There was no place to go. She found herself standing on a dusty-coloured ledge several hundred feet off the ground, with striped canyon walls blockading her inside a small cul-de-sac of roughhewn stone, glossy ironwoods, and folded teepees. A thin slice of moon-shaped air encompassed the plummeting blue heights at her back, but Annika was fairly positive that she would fall to an unwelcome death if she dived from such a crisp altitude.

The remaining exit was presently becoming besieged by a steady stream of glistening bodies which were pouring outwards like a muddy geyser. Annika retreated as from them as possible, her heels dragging against the rich, dark soil with furrows of untold haste as she held up the book, both to fend them off and to cover herself for the sake of modesty—although the latter attempt was done quite poorly, and only seemed to make it worse.

"Please—stop," Annika pleaded, feeling like an entrapped creature facing its death and struggling in the throes of human mortality. Her noble sensibilities, as a delicate thing upon the whole, were swiftly being encroached on by the edges of a worldly conscious tainted from a feminine mortification.

Annika had never felt quite so strongly in her exposed womanhood than she did at that precise moment. Less than a handful of known people had ever seen her naked in the culpabilities belonging to the undressed aspect of girlish vulnerability, and heretofore she stood at the viewing pleasure of those complete strangers before her. There was a comical awareness lent to her by the horrific circumstances of this shameful absurdity as she realised, quite suddenly, and with cheekbones turning to an alarming hue of crimson, that she was holding a Bible.

It was a criminal aspect of sinning, Annika felt. Surely the fates were testing her strength and willpower, as even though she quavered in fraught emotion regarding the tenseness of her nubile posture, she yet remained steadfast and with the depth of nonexistent tears clouding her honey-brown eyes.

"P-please," Annika sputtered, feeling the wind chafe between her legs and other unmentionable parts. "I'm sorry, I just—please, don't come closer. Please, leave me alone."

The seconds ticked by in an excruciating slowness before the natives slowly acquiesced. They moved backwards, grouping here and there with an awestruck sense of wonderment until a wide arching curve had been formed around the secluded perimeter, creating a healthy distance between her and the congregated throngs of russet-coloured bodies.

Unknowing of the reason, Annika ducked her head, unsure of herself and how to proceed next. "I . . . Well, I . . ." She babbled onwards with an amusing, yet heartfelt string of charming novelties. "Thank you. Well, I—you see . . ."

A pained gasp fluttered from her lips as there was a slight, sudden pressure encircling her injured waist, and before Annika could speak a single word, or protest her situation, she was firmly pivoted around in a circular motion and brought directly about-face. She twisted and pulled to little avail, raising first one hand, and then the another, as if to strike against her captor; they were both caught, however, with the masculine features of a bandaged grasp gently forcing her into submission.

Annika looked up, meeting the inscrutable gaze of ice-blue eyes and sharp aquiline features which were heavily wrapped beneath the pristine layers of mummification. Her erratic heartbeat skyrocketed against her throbbing pulse like a wailing cacophony of untuned instruments left for the rainfalls of a pitiless monsoon, and almost she was certain that the grotesque man in front of her could listen to her pounding nerves with relative ease.

They stood mere inches apart, and she could feel the residual warmth seeping from his bulletproof vest and starched undershirt into the marrow of her shaking bones. He had entrapped both of her wrists with one appendage, while the other had deftly slid the book from her budding chest, revealing her barest intimacies to him in a manner not unlike the gentlest of roses which airs its blossoms to wayward travellers.

His eyes remained steadfastly on her face despite his practiced actions, and Annika felt like she was burning from within herself. She only came up to the middle of his chest and had to crane her head upwards at such a close distance, her lengthy curls brushing onto his lean arms with a delicate, kissing embrace.

Annika's astonished gaze became an expressive, molten pit of fire as realisation dawned upon her. "You're—"

"Hush, now," Joshua murmured, his hand hovering by the small of her back. The book's thin pages grazed her skin, sending quick, sensitive jolts of electricity through her at the sensation. He was almost shielding her from the natives with his hulking posture, somehow, although the rationality of it remained unknown to her sensibilities at the present moment. "Let's get you away from the edge, shall we?"

He stepped off to the side, unzipping the Kevlar tunic and draping it over her shivering flesh. "We can speak more once we're inside the caves," Joshua said, before switching to a guttural language and rapidly talking to the natives with clicks and sharp gestures.

She couldn't understand the exchange, but watched with a silent, sheepish look as they dispersed in droves, hesitant to leave her behind—or, rather, the man who was holding her close, as if fending her off from harm. A gauze-wrapped hand firmly descended between her shoulder blades, guiding her into the cutting darkness like a shepherd reuniting its unruly flock once again. It wasn't something that she relished very much.

"You'll have to forgive the Dead Horses' excitement," Joshua apologised, his expression unreadable in the dimness. "It is not often that visitors come here to Zion. They meant no harm by it, I assure you."

Silence.

"I hit one of them with the—that book," Annika finally said, rediscovering her shaken voice. "I'm sorry."

"Yes, I know," Joshua replied, a roughhewn lightness colouring his otherwise sombre tone. "It is of no consequence. The boy has a hardy constitution."

They reached the original chamber from whence she had slept without incident. The woollen blankets still laid in a mangled heap by the workshop, proudly stating the persistent evidence of her intrusive residency alongside bold swathes of unrolled linens that she hadn't noticed earlier, and the discarded pistol which had tumbled to the bottom of the inclined overhang.

"Here, sit there." Joshua gestured, releasing his hold on her and moving to a metal shelf filled with knick-knacks.

Annika went to a small ledge and stood there before awkwardly fulfilling his request out of a necessary obligation for movement. She had never been in such proximities with a man before, and it felt wholly frightening. As a natural reaction, she quickly yanked the heavy vest over her bosom with crossed arms and clamped her thighs together in an ironlike vice, spreading her hands downwards over the gentle curve which denounced the junction of her mound.

Surely her cheeks were aflame as Annika stared resolutely at her feet, refusing to look ahead and wishing that the earth would swallow her up into nothingness. She felt certain that the humiliation was worse than getting shot in the head.

She heard Joshua rustling around inside a few wooden boxes until he seemingly found what he was looking for. He paused, pulling back from his search to glance at her with the reassurance that she hadn't fled the immediate vicinity.

Annika wanted nothing more than to do just that, but her limbs had already turned to lead. She could feel his hawkish gaze bearing down on her, yet she hadn't the strength to return it without bursting into tears at her own distress.

"We'll have to redress your bandages as your wounds are bleeding through more quickly than I'd like." Joshua slowly walked towards her with an armful of medicinal items, only stopping to set them aside at her left. "Are you alright with that, child?"

His sedate footsteps had reverberated throughout the corridors when he strolled across, bouncing around to the uncertain, floundering rhythm that was currently Annika's heartbeat. It was a disastrous collision, she decided, continuing the hollowness of its reeling cadence even as the man paused before her.

She was parallel to his waist as he stood there, and Annika had but to nudge open her legs the smallest amount to allow them to be formed around his midriff like a natural concave of tangled limbs. The inappropriate thought sent her shying away from the man, as if she were imitating a wounded gazelle.

Joshua hesitated at her reaction. "I . . . I can send for a woman. If you wanted, that is."

She gave a lukewarm shrug, trying, and failing to ignore the closeness of their nearly entwined positions. "I . . . I don't care."

But she did care. Very much so. And Annika would have voiced her complaints more loudly were it not for her instinctual lack of experience regarding the intimacy of any such personal nature. As it was, she felt at a complete loss for the proper course of action.

Joshua quietly regarded her. "I'm not going to hurt you. If you'd like I can send for one of the female healers. Although, I cannot guarantee their adeptness at being gentle. They are an excitable people sometimes."

 _No kidding,_ Annika thought, burrowing into the collar of the jet-black vest, its heaviness and weighted pockets almost soothing in their propensities. Her disorderly brown curls fell to the sides of its lapel, carelessly entangling themselves with the matte fabric. His hovering closeness kept making her twitch about, and the lurking scent of muskiness and fresh gunpowder plundered her nostrils yet again as Joshua patiently waited for a response.

Yet there was none to give. Annika opened her parted lips, and spoke of only silence. Her small mouth felt like a hot, gluey mess of unwanted sawdust; the words had become fixedly stuck in her throat and refused to budge no matter the import of their designation. She shook her unruly head, hoping it would suffice.

His blue eyes gentled at the motion. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen," Annika said softly, surprised that the utterance left her tongue altogether. It seemed that she could speak after all.

"Seventeen," Joshua repeated, his voice drawing it out with a subtle tinge of sadness. He gave a weary sigh of resignation and placed his bandaged hands on either side of her dangling legs. "You have my sympathies, child. But you must give me a proper answer before you bleed out."

Annika looked at her bandages and watched, a little startled, as crimson flowers slowly unfurled through them. "You can stay," she murmured, surprised as the words welled up from her mouth without permission; she couldn't rightly say where their origins consisted, yet it came from somewhere unknown.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." She looked not one way, or quite the other, but instead had a bright, delirious attention fixedly arrested upon the hard-packed floor with a perplexingly growing alarm. "Get it over with."

Joshua wasted no time. At first, she jerked away from his professional touch, then quickly schooled herself into a neutrality as he brushed her curls aside with the back of an unshakeable hand and lowered the vest from her shoulders.

He tended to her side in methodical movements, steadily unwrapping the linens and exposing the wounded flesh. A large, unwieldy gash showed itself, separating the halves of her slender abdomen, and finely held together by translucent stitches. Still raw and tender, it marred her perspiring skin that otherwise glowed like freshly gathered honey in the sunlight.

"Lean back," Joshua ordered, although not unkindly. "Not too much. There, just so."

Annika stared as the bandages became despoiled and drenched by her blood, her expression wide-eyed. His steely gaze briefly flicked to hers before probing the contusion with a moist cloth. She visibly tensed, her muscles coiling like a broken clock as she nearly fell into him with a strangled gasp. Pain returned to her in hot white starbursts, and she became slick with adrenaline and fear.

"I'm sorry." Joshua stopped himself. "I can bring you narcotics, but they might render you unconscious for a time."

Annika shook her head, making a feeble noise at the back of her throat. "I don't care."

Joshua looked at her, and were it not for the bandages largely covering his face she would have thought him upset. "Your foolhardiness about nonchalance is going to kill you someday."

Annika laughed, momentarily forgetting the intimate situation as her brown eyes flashed like submerged treasure. She resembled a distraught animal, shuttered and trapped within its own torment. "Already did."

A disgruntled sound came from him, and Joshua said nothing in response. Instead, he fetched a silvery canteen that stank of something vile, returning just as she toppled into his chest from fatigue. He brought it up to her cracked lips, bending over her in a statesque posture that spoke of an obvious discomfort.

"Drink."

Annika's small mouth tenderly parted around the entrance and she took a good long swallow of the flask. She sputtered from the acidic fire which snaked through her lungs and settled in her stomach, making her thrash at the awful taste.

Joshua sat her back upright and resumed his task, cleaning out the wound and redoing some of the torn stitches. "You should have had a better welcome to the lands of Zion," he said, filling the silence. "Yet it appears that Caesar has a stronger hand than I thought. A terrible shame, really."

He looked upwards, satisfied. The crisp undersides of his starched collar shone brightly in the candlelight as he finished rewrapping her lean hips. Annika stared back, and he seemed startled by the dewy richness of her vibrant eyes. All too sharply could Joshua feel her naked skin and well-shaped chest laid against the planes of his body like a tempting fruit.

She regarded him warily with a feminine tilt to her pleasing chin—it was a complex look oftentimes given to those vicious predators who had suddenly decided to be merciful to their prey on a distracting whim. Perhaps he was one of them. Satan himself had come from the spawn of God, after all.

"Is your hand stronger, Malpais Legate?" Annika asked softly, surprised at her own boldness. Her vision kept spinning everywhere in a maddish carousel of colour, and she felt incredibly light-headed. She was blushing violently, yet found herself unable to move as the potent drugs paralysed her fragile structure by way of a rapturous inertia.

"I . . . " Joshua Graham never had the chance to answer, for the girl had already passed out in his arms.


	4. Chapter 3

_**A/N:** I hope you guys had a good Thanksgiving! This chapter is a flashback, and there will be quite a lot of those in this story—so, I hope you don't mind too much! As always, I appreciate your thoughts and feedback. _

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_New Vegas, 2278: Three days after Bitter Springs Massacre_

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"Missy! You git back here before I whup your dang hide!"

The blonde-haired young girl gave a mischievous giggle, her bare feet thudding into the dirt as she sprinted across the dry, uneven ground. Her grimy wiggling toes dug into the loamy soil with a wild relish, kicking up vapid clouds of red dust. She sidestepped the rickety ol' broom that her mama swung about, dodging its painful attacks before loping off like a jackrabbit beneath the hot sunlight and endless blue skies.

Strands of hair caught themselves in her little pink mouth, making her sputter and start like the pre-war engines that the farmhands worked all day'n night. She could hear them now, in the distance; their metal muscles were coiled tight to eat all the crops—the sleek iron and rusted paint sweating profusely in the afternoon, and hot enough to scald bare, unprotected hands. They puttered back and forth, their eerie grinding noises an unwelcome, if not repetitive, addition to the large acres of golden wheat, barley, and coloured maize. It was all that seemed to flourish in the warm climates of Nevada, beyond struggling cacti and thorny honey trees.

The water from Lake Mead helped. It was clear, crisp, and fresh to the sunbaked lungs of dying thirst. There was no copper aftertaste which denoted radiation, and it burned your throat somethin' fierce after a quick swallow. Mama only got three cherry-red barrels each week for the house. The rest went to the whispering fields and farmhands. It wasn't anywhere close to enough, but the NCR didn't much care for generosity. Quotas were quotas, and extra rations were practically unheard of.

" _Youse gots to be thankful," her mother had once chided, when they were shucking silky green ears of corn on the back porch. "This a dyin' land, child, and we the pioneers, you hear?"_

 _"Yes'm," Missy had absently replied, her mind in other, more fantastical places. "We gotta colonise, as them soldiers done did."_

Slender, delicate hands of a childish sort wrapped around a buttermilk cookie. Missy cackled and cooed, shoving the friable treat between her lips once she was sure of freedom. It tasted warm and earthy, with a raspy bitterness clinging to her tongue. There were crumbs that spilled and caught themselves in the threadbare folds of her sackcloth dress. Sighing, she brushed her stubby fingers clean before reaching the end of the rutted lane.

Missy turned and followed the rusted, beat-up fence which ran around the perimeter in a vague attempt at security. Barbed wires hung over the edges of the rotting wood, and she had cut herself enough times to know that it was still sharp.

 _Maybe we'll get sum letters,_ Missy thought, glancing upwards at the clouds, which were whipped up and white like fresh cream. _I c'n practice my words, and git real learned_.

Getting dispatches was a precious gift. It was what Mama said, especially when they came from Twigs or Pa, since it was a rare occurrence to happen indeed. Last one arrived four months ago, Missy reckoned. She knew that from the dog-eared almanac.

Both of 'em served in the NCR, and Missy had a real itching to go join up with the ranks despite the big upset it would undoubtedly unleash on the farmstead, 'cause she was only twelve, after all, and a little girl to boot. She wanted to see the raring sights of New Vegas for herself, to feast upon the flashing lights and clear bottles o' booze. Missy dared to think of being famous, of singlehandedly saving the NCR, and of becoming the prettiest thing alive so that every man fell at her womanly feet; she dreamt this, and much, much more all while hanging soggy linens on the clothesline.

But Mama didn't care for the military much, and had cried, sobbed, and wailed for three hours straight when her two boys had left; their reddish-yellow hair had been shaved into an alarming buzzcut, and their green-and-brown uniforms had melded with the drab countryside like the dusty camouflage of a desert moth. And so Missy stirred grits, churned freshly made butter, swept the hardwood floors, counted the sunflower seeds, and darned stinky old socks. The chores never ended, yet neither did her resolve to go off adventurin' someday.

She began to whistle tunelessly, stopping short when she spotted a lonesome person quietly travelling up the turnpike road, their small outline almost swallowed whole by the bright sunshafts which lanced through the heady blue air like long, hard spears. The breath caught sharply in Missy's throat as she stared at the hunched little figure which hobbled this way and that with a pathetic stumble borne from the extremity of a violent feeling. It was plain to see that it was an aimless path with no apparent destination, for the shapeless silhouette would stop, pause, and look about with the sluggish movements of the timid blind before moving onwards. Their progress was necessarily slow, as a heavy, wet blanket seemed draped over their thin shoulders, and their shaking feet were bent oddly. Missy was frozen in place like hunted prey, watching as a cold realisation abruptly dawned upon her, the shock being enough to make her gasp and clutch at her whitewash overalls.

The figure was just a girl, who seemed utterly defeated, as if her body was giving up to the harsh cruelty of the world, but her mind yet disagreed, and forced her to keep walking with an inexplicable reason of, perhaps, a primitive survival. Her rent leather jacket barely covered her half-exposed breasts and the tops of her thighs, nor did it shield from the elements, as each mild breeze sent it flapping wildly. Blood, dirt, and various states of other matters were layered upon her pale skin, misting her with the spotted disfigurement of a ruined painting.

Missy took off like a demon, whirling through the fields and screeching, "Mama, Mama!" Her teary eyes watered as she hastily climbed over a wooden gate and sprinted for the old saggy porch with all that she was worth, bellowing up a veritable storm. "Mama, hey, you gots—you gotta come quick!"

"Goodness, chil', what you want now?" Her mother grumbled beneath her breath. Her stiff hands were clenched around a worn splintery broom with more than a tinge of rigidness at being interrupted. Her greying hair stiffly stood upon the prow of a pinched, angular face, showcasing a ruddy callousness which burned with the sweltering heat of anger and motherly irritation.

"Mama!" Missy took huge gulp of air, pointing with a crooked finger down the tracks that led up to their two-storey home. "A girl! There's a girl—I dun saw it myself—and she's hurt bad. Like, bad. All this blood was everywhere, and she were limping 'bout."

Her mother suddenly became very still. Nobody came near here 'cept soldiers since Camp Golf was close by; the extensive fortress was less than a few miles southwards, and two pairs of patrols would march through the acreage weekly on their way back to base. Missy coughed, leaning against one of the wooden, spindly columns supporting the roof of the porch, her eyes gazing steadfastly at her parent with a brimming impatience.

Mama stirred, her yellow skirt and floral blouse all neat and orderly despite the hot summer gusts which strived to do the complete opposite. She used to be thin, although the years and childbearing hadn't been kind to her. Now her skin was marred with the beginnings of time, and fresh, sprightly wrinkles peppered her glassy eyes.

"Hey," Missy whispered, startling her from the slack-jawed look. "She had blood, Mama. Lotta blood."

"Child—so help me if you're lying," Her mother warned, "I will strip your goddamn hide fo' telling tall tales."

Missy stuck out her tongue. "I ain't." She pointed out, far to the corner of her eyesight, where they both caught of glimpse of a dark, moving form. "Look."

"Well, shit."

Excitement and nerves roiled around Missy's head, coagulating into a childish mess of unbearable emotions and spinning thoughts. _Mama swore,_ she shouted at herself, her heartbeat speeding up as she quickly dodged another swat. _Mama ain't never swore 'fore._

Missy followed her mother down the road, keeping several steps away as the girl came fully into view, stopping beside a dead copsewood. She hung onto the brown pre-war mailbox with what looked to be the final dregs of her strength, and her pitiful gaze struck them as vacant and heart-wrenching when the three of their gazes collided into an inseparable mesh of human sentiments.

Her mother placed a hand over her ample, quivering bosom, making small noises as her mouth quirked downwards into a thoughtful frown. Missy wasn't sure if she was supposed to fetch the family shotgun, or grab one of those lacy fans that stood collecting dust in their front parlour—she weren't allowed to touch 'em, so she stayed put, instead, and worried her bottom lip until she tasted the coppery twang of blood.

The girl stared at them both. They stared back.

Reddish-blonde curls were pressed up against her drawn face, nearly hiding her large honey eyes and sallow cheekbones. There was so much blood caked on her in dry, papery layers that she seemed like a proper demon, accompanied with rasping breaths and low, unearthly moans. Slowly, ever so slowly, she raised up a bony hand, allowing the blanket to drop at her feet in a puddle of tattered fabric. It was woollen, and thick, and—Missy gasped.

"That ain't no blanket," Missy whispered, her button-like features fraught with a sudden, harsh terror, "Thassa NCR flag, Mama."

Her mama almost fainted right then and there. "Aw, shit."

The girl collapsed into a malnourished heap. Her scrawny limbs folded in upon themselves, as if making a deformed pretzel. Her head struck a white stone when she fell upon the unforgiving pavement with a thump, but she barely seemed to notice as her eyelids were already closed shut with exhaustion.

"Mama—what do we do?" Missy said, truly frightened. She had never seen someone die before, and now it was happening right in front of her, almost testing her tender courage.

Her mother startled, then recollected her thoughts with a knowing grimace. She crouched next to the girl with a huff, disregarding the blood and dirt as she plopped down her heavy skirt and petticoats

"Mama?" Missy prompted, half-afraid she'd get no answer.

"We bring her in," her mother replied stoutly, shaking her head. "We bring her on inside, an' we wash her up good. Ain't nobody dying on my property, 'specially not with some NCR flag. I ain't no cotton-head."

Missy nodded, sucking in her cheeks as she ran to fetch clean water without being told. Her footsteps clattered noisily on the tacky porch as she swung open the screen door and darted into the kitchen—then through a dim hallway, then the mudroom, and then out back near the wilted vegetable gardens. Two oaken barrels awaited her eagerly, basking in the lukewarm shade of the late afternoon. They were tall, intimidating, and harder than a dang chestnut to crack open during Yuletide, but Missy didn't stop for a moment until she had a bucket overfilling with fresh water. It splashed at her ankles as she lugged it back. Perspiration dotted her forehead in shiny droplets as she entered the cramped kitchen with a metallic clang. She laid the bucket down, then moved to the sittin' room where she heard soft noises.

Her mother had stripped the girl stark naked, where she now stiffly lay on the pastel green couch. Her heart-shaped face had grown even paler, like a dying snowdrop, and Missy swore that she could count the freckles which were stippled across her crooked nose in the cool dimness with ease.

She crept into the room. "Is she dead?"

"She will be if you don't git me that water," her mother snapped out, watching as Missy smartly turned around like she had been bitten. "And go find them dang sewing supplies—they're stuffed somewhere, but I know they ain't gone just yet."

Missy shuffled out, clasping her hands together. "Yes'm."

"And get the shotgun! I ain't saving someone t'find out they're a mean hooligan."

"Yes'm."

"What you say to me?"

Missy stuck her head back in the doorway, puzzled. "What, Mama?"

Her mother shook at finger at her. "Don't be giving me no lip, girlie. And don't pout, or I'll give you somethin' to pout about. You hear me, now?"

Missy gave a big smile. "I heard you. Loud and clear."

Her mother paused, flustered. "Well—alright, then. Go on, I have a patient, and I need my things."

Missy swayed from side to side. "Is she gon' live?"

"She won't if'n you keep jabbering," her mother retorted. "Now go!"

The girl made a noise, then lapsed back into silence as fingers prodded her limp wrist for a pulse, searching for the faint heartbeat that was slowly dying like a half-melted candle at the end of its wick.


	5. Chapter 4

_**A/N:** Someone very close to me recently passed away, so I will be taking some time off to grieve and get things in order. Thanks everyone for your support, and I hope you all enjoy the newest chapter. _

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It was inevitable that, once Annika eventually regained her consciousness, she would need nourishment and medical attention. She was swiftly taken care of in a delicate manner by a veritable horde of female natives that swooped her up, bathed her, and administered any necessities with clicking tongues and shaking heads full of coiled black hair.

Joshua had, at first, hovered in the background like an unnerving spectre, watching her with an inscrutable gaze and occasionally intervening when it was thought mandatory. He was unable to speak to her alone, however, as the indigenous women heartily forbade it. They cared not for his lurking presence and stony gaze, and one even had the audacity to swat at him when it was time for Annika to wash—this one was the leader, she soon found out.

She was a fierce old thing, with rings of crows-feet around her dark almond-shaped eyes, loose wrinkles beneath her quivering chin, and dull streaks of silver-grey that shot through the braided strands of her hair like the remnants of stardust. She held a regal, almost ethereal sense of nobility despite leaning heavily upon an ashwood cane for support, and she smacked anyone who dared to come within reach at the risk of her jabbering displeasure.

Annika preferred to call the woman Angry-Stick, as she was unable to speak her actual name without stumbling over the difficult pronunciations and seeming foolish. She learned to obey her, any objections being feebly washed out with even more clicking tongues and shaking heads full of coiled black hair. She was then promptly stripped, shoved into a copper tub, and scrubbed with wiry brushes until her limbs felt raw like peeled tomatoes baking in the merciless sunlight.

The healers—they could have been no one else, Annika thought, as she had not been informed otherwise—loudly chattered over her buttery curls, their harsh fingers caressing and yanking the strands as if they were young, excitable children that needed to be thoroughly reprimanded. Annika almost assumed them to be kids just by their wild behaviour at seeing something so foreign and unlikely. It brought a petulant= scowl to her rosy face and lips.

Angry-Stick was the most fascinated by far. She massaged the soft and bouncy ringlets here and there with a coarse, invasive touch, sharply pulling back Annika's head as she ran quick hands through her abused scalp. She sighed and tutted wistfully, a content smile flitting across that wizened old face like a flash of blinding daylight.

Annika was not content. She felt, rather, the opposite of that welling emotion with a degree of uncharitable petulance befitting an impish soul from those old faerie-tales. She raised long shivering knees to her breasts, fighting the primal urge to shudder as lukewarm water sloshed about her in foamy, glittering waves of pine-smelling soap.

 _They're most likely to wash me to death,_ Annika thought sourly. Although feeling rather absurd at being afraid earlier of the natives, she had regained her chaste composure once they turned out to be more than harmless, if not terribly inquisitive and high-strung. She made rushed apologies, but as Joshua had been seemingly unwilling to translate until his curiosity was satiated, they understood not a single whit of the hasty gibberish, and hushed her with light smacks when she tried to speak further.

Angry-stick suddenly opened her mouth and started to talk and chatter away above Annika—presumably to Joshua, before relinquishing her ironlike grasp, shooing her gossiping compatriots outside the sequestered cavern, and roughly pushing him in the direction of the makeshift bathtub. She was lifted up, towelled, and re-bandaged under both of their scrutinising gazes. Little was exchanged, and as the atmosphere soon became intolerable with a distinct heaviness, she looked aside in favour of staring at the craggy ceiling.

It wasn't very interesting, Annika decided, biting her bottom lip almost tremulously. Yet it was far better than how she imagined meeting Joshua's gauzy eyes would be. He showed no viable emotion but for a slight tremble in his pristine hands, signalling an intense curiosity at the peculiar situation which they currently found themselves in.

Angry-Stick pointed, leaning on her cane. "I. Leave. Clothes."

"Wha—"

But the woman was already gone, marching off at a hobbling tempo which accompanied the -ratta-tattas- of her gnarled walking stick. She had vanished like thin smoke, making an awkward, uncomfortable silence settle between the two remaining occupants that were a mere hair's breadth from each other.

Joshua sat back on his haunches, his enshrouded hand brushing the underside of her chest in an accidental whisper of nubile flesh meeting cloth. He casually draped the other arm over his extended knee, the faded and threadbare denim of his washed-out jeans rustling loudly in the hulking caverns as he retreated with a knowing look which accompanied a peculiar brightness in his eyes.

Annika swallowed thickly, pointedly ignoring the sharp jolt that ran down her hunched backside with a sharp, inexpressible heat. She was quite positive that her face was turning a permanent shade of scarlet from being constantly exposed at every turn, and she felt powerless to do anything about it. -Stupid man.-

Joshua watched her silently, and said nothing. He held an unreadable expression within the steely, convoluted prison of those burning eyes. They were a bright periwinkle blue, those eyes, and in this strained atmosphere they seemed ardent and nearly unforgivable. The questions that went unspoken in those cutting looks despite the palpable tension increased at each speeding heartbeat. They were opposing forces; she of an otherworldly, sprite-like light, him of maturing thunderstorms on the cusp of a harsh climax too long denied.

Such was her impatience that the answers almost burst from her heedless tongue without his asking. Annika wanted it to be done with, and for the business to conclude. Yet neither spoke, and the strange quietude persisted in a state more war-torn than the dark trenches of battle. Her gaze became downcast, and she huddled her legs together so that she might ignore him better.

When Angry-Stick returned, she was nearly bombarded by the relieved youngling, who flew at her with gangly limbs, a bouncing step, and a feminine sweetness easily divulged from the hasty eagerness of her unheeded words. It illuminated her smooth, pleasing brow and thick tresses that tumbled to the middle of her spine, finally catching at her rosy lips in the form of a rapt interest that was, in and of itself, a distracting anomaly.

"Where are my clothes?" Annika asked with the politest of manners, peering towards the short little woman and hiding her annoyance. She awkwardly clasped her little fingers together into a steeple, smiling brightly. "You said something about clothes earlier. I should like them very much."

"Clothes washed. This, here."

Annika looked at the rumpled shirt irreverently shoved into her hands. It was far too large, far too clean, and far too much of the virile category, leaving hardly a room for doubt as to the mysterious inclinations of its headache-inducing familiarities. "I'm sorry, but this is not mine."

Angry-Stick clicked her yellow teeth together. "Yes. Holy."

Annika frowned, feeling baffled as her fingers brushed against the embroidered sleeves. "No, it is not holy."

"Yes. Holy."

Annika jumped, startled when she found that Joshua was standing behind her as if he was a ghostly apparition, and not a lanky man of flesh and blood. She silently cursed, almost colliding into that noiseless figure mid-step as he had caught her off-guard in a vulnerable moment, like someone observing an exotic creature with admiration, and then deciding at the very last minute to capture it.

He steadied her by the arm and Annika blushed, shyly ducking her head and yanking away from his grasp with a stubborn, mulish obstinance befitting a colicky animal. Joshua seemed relatively undisturbed at the reaction, but stood there with a quiet, calming presence in the background that she acutely felt, and was constantly being reminded of with her pounding nerves.

He spoke with the healer over the crown of her curly hair for a few lengthy minutes in the native language, his linen-wrapped forehead contorting every which way that the enshrouded bandages permitted. The conference did not last much longer, as Angry-Stick clapped her veined, papery hands together, gestured to Annika with a markedly significant glance, and took her hobbling departure once again, her doeskin shoes striking against the dirt footpaths in muffled whispers.

Annika shifted, feeling the folded shirt become heavier and heavier in her poky arms. She surmised that the news, whatever it had happened to be, was rather unpleasant, as his eyes turned lukewarm by varying degrees, and his deep voice had become throaty and raw, rasping at the back of his injured throat and resembling uncut wood.

"I will leave you to dress," Joshua said distractedly, glancing about with his hands stuffed in his pockets. "I am sorry that there is not much to offer, but your own clothes are being mended at the moment, and there isn't enough to spare around the camps."

"May I have some underwear, at least?" Annika retorted, finding her tongue and feeling a little peeved. She looked more like a scared bird with its downy breast puffed up in distress, favouring its bedraggled, if not picturesque, appearance instead of the temperamental young girl that she truly was. "Or am I just supposed to wear this?" She practically shoved the shirt into his expressionless face.

Joshua glanced downwards, mirroring her hesitant posture. If he had any eyebrows she would have imagined them to be raised in a questionable manner. "Yes, of course. I thought—never mind. The healer will be back momentarily, I can tell her to bring you anything you require. You'll forgive her, I hope. The tribal ways are far different compared to those of modernity."

Annika nodded, casting her eyes away as her mouth quirked the smallest bit. "Alright. Thank you." She lowered her arms, unsure of her sudden outburst.

Joshua studied her, and if he saw her unwilling embarrassment or archly blushing cheekbones that spoke of a fledging divinity on the threshold of womanhood, he pretended not to notice. "I'll go, then. There is business I must attend to, but we can talk more later providing you feel up to it."

Annika watched him depart before hurriedly dressing. The clothing slipped over her easily enough, billowing up like a large sailcloth in the breeze, and loosely settling around her gaunt shoulders with the thinly-veiled promise of fluttering off at the slightest movement or discrepancy of character. It accordingly fell past her knees in a stiff, martial attitude, as if daring her to move. She rolled up the baggy shirt-sleeves with a frown before tightly wrapping arms around her middle and waiting for the healer.

But Angry-Stick did not return. It was someone else, instead. Annika recognised them as the unnamed girl who had fled from her in the caves, and felt slightly sheepish for causing such a wild reaction from the petite thing who now crouched down before her. She gave a disarming smile, and was met with blank eyes and a cautious acknowledgement instead.

She was given leather bindings and swiftly shown how to use them. The comforting support made her feel more secure, at least, and its familiarity allowed a relieved expression to flicker across her face. The breezy shirt still kept slipping down her arms, but she knew that there wasn't going to be much of a chance where she flashed the poor natives again.

Or the Burned Man.

 _Nope_ , Annika thought, gnawing on her stubby fingernails with a worrisome look etched on her faltering countenance. _Don'tcha think about that, now._

It was a whole can of unopened worms she'd rather not deal with. She felt at a true disadvantage, then, for while she certainly knew of Joshua, and had been able to instantly distinguish his macabre deformities by sight, he had seen every bit of her, and had likely gone through her belongings to know more.

If they had survived the fall, that is. Her Pip-Boy was currently missing, and the absence of its cold, clunky weight on her left wrist made Annika walk in an odd pattern of zigzagging footsteps, as if compensating for the machinery which she dearly missed. It was hard to navigate without the coveted machinery, and she felt her deficiencies all the more keenly as she was escorted outside.

* * *

 _I came into Paradise,_ Annika mused, stepping outside the lengthy caverns at last and taking a deep, unrestrained breath of air. It was late afternoon and the shimmering skies were flush with thick puffy clouds that moved at a sedately pace, surely followed by the hazy sun which seemed content to pour its mellow rays onto the brick-red canyons and periwinkle streams alike. There was hardly a cool gust of wind around, small or large, and the wooded trees reached fulsome branches of well-shaped green leaves up to the heavens in a stretching embrace reminiscent of fat worshippers finally getting their allotted exercise.

The girl had acted as a guide, and silently took her departure amidst the throngs of colourful teepees and makeshift lean-tos. Yellow bonfires sparked here and there, creating ringlets of thin smoke as various meats were being spitted and cooked upon wooden sticks over the flames; their natural oils and fats sizzling in juicy rivulets of offal that were hastily collected with palm leaves.

There was a sporting atmosphere to the attractive scene, and many of the brown-skinned natives took to singing or enjoining hands in a frolicsome dance consisting of quick footsteps and twirls. One of them held up a feathered gourd, while another beat on drums. It was not an excitable commotion, however. Everything was carried out in a peaceful, almost lulling manner, as if this were the natural order of things and not completed by pure happenstance or a general celebration of festivals.

Annika moved between two sparring groups of young boys clad in nothing but loincloths, suddenly self-conscious of the impassive stares and garbled gossip. She hastily moved her feet, retreating into a little alcove filled with honey mesquite trees and soft, downy grass that tickled her feet whenever she moved, glancing around with wide eyes at the discovered hollow.

 _I don't think I've ever seen stuff so green,_ Annika thought, tucking her long legs beneath her as she perched herself in the shade, glad to be away from the prying gazes for the moment. She swept shaking hands over the vibrant turf, a delicate laugh bursting from her at the bizarre predicament. -Those old books don't describe it good enough.-

She relished the greenery with a precious look, plucking some of the emerald fronds and dropping them into her lap. Anything she touched soon became a mutilated green as she romped about, smiling and tossing her head of untamed curls like a carefree child. Earthy stains adorned both hands and feet as she made a game of it, laughing and breathing deeply. Never had she ever tasted air so sweetly crisp on the tongue.

"Hoi!"

The mischievous countenance that Annika held slowly disintegrated as a caramel figure loped towards her. A blush throughly ruddied her freckled cheeks and tilted nose as she looked off to the side, embarrassed at being caught in her juvenile performance.

The person seemed to be of the same age as her, if not even younger. He raised a tattooed hand in greeting, dressed with animal hides and leather straps that accompanied a bright, inquisitive face, almond-shaped eyes, and a square chin. Blots of dried ink webbed their way across his lithe muscles as he moved, winding and twisting in ritualistic mazes of colour.

"You are the _oswlandr_ , yes?" He asked amicably. "My name is Follows-Chalk. I am a scout for the Dead Horses. Well, sort of."

Annika looked at him, her eyes widening with shock as recognition flickered in them. "You're the one I hit with that—that book!"

Follows-Chalk grinned, prodding his slightly crooked nose. "The Holy Book, yes. Maybe I am blessed now, n'yeh?"

A gentle rosiness tinged her face. "I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean to hit you, honest! I just—well, I got startled, is all. You came up on me so sudden and I had a bad reaction."

Follows-Chalked laughed, a warm expression curling his mouth upwards into an amused smile. "I would hate to see you with a real weapon, then." He gestured, standing over her. "May I sit?"

Annika regained her self-command, though it was not easily conquered. "I suppose so."

He flashed another smile. "Good. I was going to sit anyways." He moved into a cross-legged position to her left, letting the soft rays of translucent sunshine warm his folded limbs that radiated with a healthy copper glow by the encroaching heat.

"You speak English pretty good," Annika said, making a bashful sort of conversation. She looked at him fixedly, her molten gaze meeting his like the shine of a simmering fire being rekindled.

Something occurred between them, there, resembling the infantile stages of friendship which felt inevitable and light-hearted. It was a peaceful essence making a swift, careless transit with all the footpaths of a bonded companionship shaped by a youthful age. All transgressions aside, she knew right then that they would get along more than famously.

"Oh, thanks," Follows-Chalk replied cheekily. "Joshua taught me when I was younger, but I'm still learning the language. Maybe someday, after all this, I can travel to civilisation and get more better. I like the Back-When stuff."

"It's not everything," Annika murmured softly, catching onto the unspoken longing in his timbre voice. "I've never seen grass before now. I thought it was all gone and dead since the bombs."

"What, never?" Follows-Chalk seemed taken aback, his eyes widening with incredulity. "What kind of place are you from?"

Annika shook her head, looking beyond him as she sobered. "It's not what you think it is, trust me. It's always hot, and dark, and there's trash everywhere. Even when it's unbearable outside you get these bone-deep shivers, and everything tastes metallic."

Follows-Chalk seemed more than a little crestfallen before slowly recovering his bouncing spirit, albeit a sadness still remained as he seemed deep in thought at her words. "Ah, I see."

Annika had tactfully left out the murderous greed that the people out there always held in the harsh wastelands, and the political subterfuge, wars, and poverty which permeated into the very atmosphere, spreading over New Vegas like an irreversible stain of poisonous shadows. It lingered on her lips, choking her into a sullen silence that resurfaced unwanted memories.

She had tried, and failed, to save it.

"Hey," Follows-Chalk said, nudging her out of her brooding thoughts that were nearing obsessive. "Is that why you're hoarding the grass?" he asked innocently, pointing a finger, "there's plenty extra around, you know."

"I'm not hoarding it," Annika said defensively, a guilty look striking her furrowed expression as she hastily covered the wilted tufts that were already beginning to expire in her lap. She gently smiled, relaxing and glad of the friendly distraction. "I'm just permanently keeping it."

A devious look shone on his face for a moment. "I can give you lots more," Follows-Chalk said, before quickly yanking up long strands of the grass and throwing them at her in a veritable barrage.

"Wha—hey!" Annika shielded herself, falling backwards with a shriek.

Loose pebbles and clumps of uprooted dirt carelessly rained down around them in an earthly shower as a lively fight ensued, sporting the joyous attributes of a sudden camaraderie with good-natured screams and breathless words.

 _"Na ash ne!"_ Follows-Chalk shouted, laughing as she assaulted him uproariously in a relentless salvo of springy turf. "Truce, truce!"

Annika paused, her dewy eyes sparkling like fresh-water pearls. It made for an adorable sight, as her little nose was upturned, and a frivolous smile graced her blushing cheeks. She could not remember feeling quite so happy or carefree before, and the dismal realisation quickly subdued her. "You mean it?"

"Yah—hey! I meant it, okay?" Follows-Chalk pushed her off him, watching with amusement as she sprawled out on the ground in a bumbling heap of ungainly-looking legs, as if mimicking a puppet. "You are much relentless."

She ran a sweaty hand through her brown curls, staring heavenward at the lemonade skies. It was slowly turning a light pink with the onset of an early evening, and the whipped-up clouds had become even bigger, if possible, their mountainous white tips cresting the gossamer horizon with streaks of a shaded bluish-gold. Heretofore, she hadn't seen something so achingly beautiful and untouched by the spoils of nuclear war.

It fed upon her remaining naivety, dismissing the sourness in her chaste tongue. "You started it," Annika countered smugly, pulling down the shirt that had hiked around her slim waist. "Which means I won."

Follows-Chalk leaned over her, a maniacal grin spilling from his brown lips in a triumphant victory. "I don't think so. I called a truce."

"Which means I won," Annika repeated, narrowing her eyes.

"I believe I am gooder at Eenglish than you, no?" He chuckled and clicked his yellow teeth, the sound reverberating around them with a bright, eager merriment. "Wait 'til Joshua hears about this."

"He doesn't need to know," Annika responded, sitting upright. The shirt promptly dropped fell off her left shoulder, exposing rosy-hued collarbones to the waning sunlight as she brought spindly knees to her bosom. "What's he like, anyways?"

"Joshua Graham?"

Annika nodded, wordless. She knew barely enough from her travels, and now seemed a better time than any to gather the truth from a direct source of knowledge. "I knew of him before I came here, but not much."

 _"Lah,"_ Follows-Chalk replied, raising his hands, "he's a good man. Harsh sometimes, maybe, maybe not. He has a mean temper when bad things happen, though, but otherwise is pretty calm. He reads lots from the Holy Book 'bout the chin dee-—the Devil, that is—and talks that sinning is wrong."

"Is that all?" Annika said, almost afraid to ask more. It seemed such a striking contrast to the whispers she heard spoken about in the casinos and outposts of New Vegas. She dared not mention the Legion, as the thought sent her heartbeat skittering downwards in a spiralling torrent of unprecedented hatred and fear.

"Nah. Joshua came to us before, back before he got burned with the black fire. I was still a babe and don't remember much, but our shamans spoke of him being angrier, colder. Nasty, even. He had a way with the girls and made us warlike. Then he left to march against the Sunset People—lacking our help, course. I don't think he had enough time. When he returned, Joshua was as you see him now. Very much changed, and holy."

"Sunset People?" Annika asked, wrapping her head around the plethora of information. "You—you mean the NCR?"

"Ah. Yes. The Eenseeyar." Follows-Chalk looked inordinately pleased, although she couldn't fathom why. "You know of them?"

Annika frowned deeply at that. "Plenty. They warred with the Legion over the Hoover Dam a couple years ago."

"A dam!" His thick, bushy eyebrows almost flew from his smooth forehead with surprise. "I did not think that armies would squabble about a dam. Those poor beavers."

"You'd be shocked what civilised armies fight for, really." Annika gave a wry smile, her nose wrinkling as she glanced at the bubbling stream nearby. "And how do know about beavers? I thought they were all extinct."

Follows-Chalk puffed up his chest, resembling a strutting rooster preening its lustrous feathers. "There are some here. Nasty little critters, but they make mud houses you can crawl inside."

"I would like to see them," Annika admitted, glancing at him shyly.

"Yah! And I would like to show you. I will have to ask Joshua, though, as he makes those decision for the tribe. You are still an _owslandr_ , after all."

"Oh." Annika tried to hide her disappointment, pursing her lips. A tragic look of torment flickered in her simmering eyes before fluttering away and being replaced with a steely, implacable resolve. She understood, but had grown tired of endlessly running with no real destination in mind; while she had just arrived to Zion by desperation and pure chance, it had already filled the aching hole in her melancholy resolve.

Follows-Chalk smiled. "I am sure he will let you. He has an honest heart, and that's what matters." He gave a slow nod, stretching his arms out with an audible crack before standing. "Come, it is almost suppertime. We can go talk to Joshua after that—but the food! You don't want to miss it."

Annika smiled, her eyes glossy and shining. "Of course. I wouldn't skip it for the entire world."


	6. Chapter 5

_**A/N:** I'm back in black, baby! Any feedback would be greatly appreciated :3_

* * *

Mealtimes were a communal affair, Annika quickly found out. Thick oaten loaves of bread had been toasted on flat rocks, and were served with bighorner cream, greasy sausage rolls, and crispy mutfruit tarts that burned her tongue into a stinging numbness. Such wholesome food, gathered freshly from low-strung nets and cultivated gardens was nothing short of heavenly to her overly exuberant senses.

The mud surrounding the roaring campfires had been scraped into a gridiron of eager fingers as the earth was hastily pulled back in deep furrows, revealing the cooked flesh of buttery fish simmering beneath dark glossy leaves of emerald-green. Clay earthenware and mutilated canteens were eagerly passed around, topped up with homemade liquids, and shared amongst the chattering bodies of natives and outlander alike.

She drank and supped with everyone else, licking her lips at the bitter aftertaste of fermented milk which soured her prim mouth and settled like a cloudy haze in her mind. She sat cross-legged near the edges of one particular bonfire, sitting close by Follows-Chalk with all the shy nervousness befitting a spotted calf who felt the rarest drops of excitement, yet remained unsure on its actual welcome into the so-called herd of jabbering people.

 _I wonder how they really feel about me,_ Annika thought. There were a few inquisitive glances hastily casted her way, filled with either a mild caution or a blank, but somehow impassioned curiosity. Beyond that, though, she was left relatively unmolested except for some awkward gestures serving as a crude sort of communication, and throngs of naked children that pranced around her before galavanting off in a squealing uproar.

Most were too busy chattering away with foolish animation and camaraderie about something that had stirred up the sprawling camps and bonfires. Countless footprints marked the several downtrodden spaces, making the dirt awash with the tangible remnants of a primitive enthusiasm fixedly stuck upon gossip in the most traditional form possible.

"What are they talking about?" Annika asked in a blurting manner, her half-hearted attempt of a question going unnoticed by the feasting masses surrounding her. She kept glancing about, feeling oddly out of place in the otherwise jovial scene.

"Hmm?" Follows-Chalk said distractedly, munching on some toasted bread with a blissful look on his face. The flickering firelight made his eyes seem like swollen pits, and her own petite figure begrudgingly held a jaundiced glow from the copper warmth of the dancing flames.

Annika impatiently tugged on his tattooed arm to catch his divided attention, much as a child would who felt fraught with the nearly overwhelming nerves of an excitable nature. "What's going on? Everyone seems talkative tonight and very, very giddy—more so than usual, I mean."

"Ah." Follows-Chalk nodded sagely. "A visitor comes to us from the Narrows; Daniel, of the former New Canaanites. He is speaking with Joshua on an urgent matter, which is why there are no prayers for the supper this evening."

Annika tilted her head at him. "Prayers?" she asked, a soft smile lingering near the corners of her little mouth. She watched as her companion seemingly steeled himself, then dove hastily into the heated fray of ceramic platters, squabbling bodies, and muted singsong laughter. "You mean like from all that pre-war religion stuff? I read about some of it in a dusty old library near Novac. It was pretty interesting for a bunch of stories."

"I have never heard of Novac," Follows-Chalk replied, thoughtfully rubbing his tattooed chin and retreating with the greasy spoils that he had managed to take. "But—yes. They both talk about it often. Joshua always sings the graces out of the Good Book before we eat and partake. Daniel is here, though, which means that something bad mist have happened. They converse in the caves even as we speak."

Annika snatched his food away as he became momentarily distracted, ignoring the mournful look that made his brown face seem puppyish and comically large when he turned around. "I wonder what Daniel is like," she said aloud, keeping the vittles from his strong grasp. It certainly wasn't easy, as he was both taller and longer-limbed than her.

"Give it back," Follows-Chalk said in a whining manner.

Annika staunchly lifted her head, stifling a ridiculous grin that rapidly spread across her face as if it was wildfire despite the sombre conversation. She felt inexplicably giddy at their light-hearted argument, which closely resembled two siblings who were yet still bosom friends. "Get some more, silly. Don't you know? Ladies first."

Follows-Chalk stared at her, taken aback by her chipper words and attitude. "But that is the last of the crumble. There is no more left, and I—I want it."

Annika seemed to relent, for she slowly lowered the hearty trencher in her petite hands until it settled beneath her chest. "Then talk more about Daniel, and Joshua, and the rest of Zion. You'll have to tell me everything, because you said you would earlier."

"I do not think I want to be your friend anymore," Follows-Chalk retorted sulkily, although his demeanour wasn't unkind in the slightest; rather, it was that of a petulant child who had let himself become bested. "Besides," he muttered lowly, "Joshua and them will want to talk to you anyways." He quickly snatched the plate back with a conflicted look of triumph and suspicion. "And you talk funny."

"You talk funny," Annika retorted, sticking out her tongue. "I talk this way because . . . because . . ." A confused look flitted across her face and she became silent for a moment. "I read a lot of books," she supplied, although it wasn't the entire truth; and the rest was left unsaid about her remarkable, old-fashioned prose that fell from her lips almost naturally.

Deep down, in the dark recesses of her thoughtful and troubled soul, she couldn't quite remember the rest, except for what came to her in the sleep-deprived and fitful nights of gruesome nightmares that constantly haunted her buzzing head. There were certain things she would never recall, she had been told. Getting shot in the head had a habit of doing that.

At least she mostly knew the important things. Mostly.

"Are you alright, friend? You look pale."

Annika shook her head, mustering a thin smile that fell short of her glimmering eyes. "Yeah. I just—like how they speak in those old romance books. I always thought they sounded pretty intelligent."

Follows-Chalk looked unconvinced but left the matter alone, as he if sensed her unspoken distress. "Yeah, sure."

Annika gave a wry snort. "It's practically medieval," she jested without a trace of sustainable humour, "Jane Austen was ahead of her time; most female authors were back then, I suppose."

Before Follows-Chalk could respond to her saturnine response, a harsh-looking woman appeared out of nowhere, bedecked in feathery dressings and yellow bone earrings that merrily clacked against her bead-encrusted neck. She pointed a spindly finger at Annika, beckoning yet stern in the oversaturated hues of the sparkling firelight. "You, come. Now."

Annika stared, flustered. "Where?"

The woman turned to Follows-Chalk with a cross, exasperated look. He had stuffed a fruit-studded roll in his mouth, his cheeks full to bursting like a redhanded chipmunk. He carefully held his food in a protective manner before swallowing, speaking to the woman with clicks and gruff, earthy words, and listening attentively when she evenly replied in the same mysterious tongue that currently eluded Annika. She tried to appear as the epitome of patience and folded her hands in her lap, subtly straining to catch any familiarity in the droning speeches that flew past her head in a rapid manner.

Finally, Follows-Chalk turned to appraise her, a fond, knowing look in his eyes that mutated into a mischievous twinkle. Then, he shooed her off with one hand, "You are to go and see Joshua, just like I told you, friend. He awaits you inside Angel Cave."

A shocking chill went up Annika's spine at that moment, and she couldn't rightly say why it was so. Instead, a scandalised look of deep, treasonous consternation briefly flickered over her heart-shaped face as words failed her tongue; she appeared anything but the curious and excitable girl that she had been mere minutes ago. A blush ruddied the roots of her hair as she rose up, muttering unintelligible sounds that were extremely profane.

"May Jane Austen bless you!" Follows-Chalk teased, waving at her and returning to his lukewarm meal, only to find it stolen by someone else.

Annika sighed, scrubbing at her face as she followed the silent woman. She knew where this led—she was a clever girl, despite childish appearances—Joshua inevitably wanted answers for what had happened, and rightly so. He had been kind enough to wait for a while and let her adapt to the shockingly new environment, as business had demanded it, but now she was both at his disposal and leisure.

 _I am a guest here,_ Annika reminded herself firmly. _He should be able to answer my questions as well._ She highly doubted that the past doctrines of his renowned cruelty still existed, and were apt to resurface at the slightest discomfort. Their brief introductions had already showed him to be a greatly changed man, drastically unlike the dissimilar silhouette of his younger years.

She had to constantly remind herself that he was no longer such a mean person, even though she kept constantly thinking about it with needless comparisons that satisfied her morbid curiosity. Once, long ago, he had held another name, one much more sinister and cursed by past sins rising from the grave. At times it dredged up old memories that she would rather have forgotten about, concerning a much younger and dangerous replica, one of whom was still alive and actively hunting for her in the wastes. She felt certain of it in the marrow of her bones.

Her stony-faced guide wasted no time, and a scant few minutes later they had silently traversed the caverns to their supposed destination. That was when she started to hear heated voices ahead of her, decidedly masculine, which ricocheted wildly off the cavern walls and added to the muted din outside.

"Stay," the woman commanded, her throaty accent garbled and harsh as she shoved Annika through the open doorway, none too gently, and grimly marched off with a stiff waddle that would have seemed comical were it not for the circumstances.

Annika frowned, glancing behind her shoulder before slowly walking into the room. _Here goes nothing._

There were two men sitting around a small fire, this one much more contained than its roaring counterparts outdoors. Pre-war lawn chairs were scraped back into a rough semi-circle, fanning out towards the rickety workshop of guns and gleaming bits of junk. They occupied places opposite each other, leaning this way and that as hushed murmurs filled the spacious room with rocky tension. It sounded like an argument, but less hostile, and concern was similarly etched onto their bent faces and steepled fingers. Annika immediately recognised Joshua, staring briefly at the closed Bible laying nonchalantly on his lap before switching her curious gaze to the stranger that could have only been Daniel, shyly taking in his appearance and mannerisms from the safety of the shadows.

He looked to be the type of man who was used to hard labour, and perhaps even enjoyed the more primitive aspects of it. His leather skin held the warm afterglow of a robust tan beneath the sun-drenched heavens, and the faintest indications of wrinkles were peppered around his mellow eyes, and lined his downturned mouth. There was an otherworldly softness to his dishevelled appearance, speaking silently of a self-righteous forgiveness in the form of faded overalls, rubber boots, a wide-brimmed hat, and a pastoral overcoat that hung to his knees, and which brushed against the floor whenever he sat down.

Annika was forced to approach them, having no other option as Joshua suddenly looked up without warning, and fell silent. His posture shifted imperceptibly, and the bright orbs of his burning eyes pinned her firmly in place. Daniel paused, also twisting around to see the disturbance as the conversation withered away into the damp corners, not unlike his shaded face that was darkened by the dying embers of the bouncing flames.

She nervously fiddled with the left sleeve of her borrowed shirt and rocked back on her bare heels. "Hello." Her white teeth clicked together as she forced the words out, and made herself look at the pair of them, huddling together like guilty co-conspirators just found out. "You wanted to see me?"

Daniel seemed at a sudden lost for words, and rather taken aback by her scanty appearance; his full mouth parted in the semblance of shock, his cheeks reddened to a rosy hue, and his gaze darted everywhere in a form of a bashful avoidance before awkwardly landing somewhere between Joshua and the waif-like girl. All of this happened in the single span of a moment before he regained his sense of self-possession, and pushed back his chair with an embarrassed, if not composed, greeting.

Annika tucked a strand of floating hair behind her ear and crossed arms over her bosom. "You're Daniel," she said, moving closer with cautious footsteps.

He gave a friendly smile and removed his hat, revealing strands of hair that shone like spun straw. "Yes'm, and you must be Annika. I hope you don't mind, but Joshua filled me in with all the details about what happened to you."

Annika tilted her head back, ignoring the chill between her legs. "I suppose not. I mean—the natives sorta filled me in about you, too. Follows-Chalk was going to tell me more, but I was brought here instead by a summons."

Daniel chuckled. "Of course, of course." He stopped, sucking in a breath as he hastily turned. "Oh! You'll forgive me—some tumultuous events have seemingly deprived me of my manners. Here, have a seat," he said, moving courteously aside.

Annika felt another blush beginning to grow at the back of her neck, ducking her head. She climbed the gentle incline with an awkward silence before sitting cross-legged into one of the chairs. The shirt easily draped over her knees and brushed the craggy floor, puddling itself into piles of loose fabric.

"You'll forgive my having remained seated during such lively introductions," Joshua said drily, breaking the stiffness with something that could have been misinterpreted as amusement. Yet his eyes were too sharp, too knowing, like the cruel man from a different life altogether.

"We've already met," Annika said somewhat hoarsely, sucking in her cheeks and biting her bottom lip.

If Joshua noticed her troubled appearance and clouded eyes, he made no indication of such by his relaxed demeanour. "So we have."

More tense silence.

Daniel clasped his hands together, clearing his throat. "I was told about the unfortunate circumstances regarding your arrival to the lands of Zion."

Annika glanced up, sufficiently distracted. "Is that so?"

Daniel nodded solemnly. "You have my deepest apologies for what you went through. It must have been truly terrible to experience."

Her blood chilled by considerable degrees, and hesitation softly bled into the corners of her wan face. "I guess."

"The man we found you with was Legate Lanius," Joshua said coldly, the warmth fading from the raspy timbre of his roughly deepening voice. There wasn't any preamble in the steely prison of that unyielding expression, and no comfort to be sought after in the hard lines of such a determined and icy look. "That was him, was it not?"

"He wasn't long for it," Annika replied lightly, her stomach oddly flip-flopping as he patiently waited for her confirmation. "But, yes. He tracked me down for revenge when the Legion was defeated at the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. I guess that such a battle-hardened man like him couldn't swallow defeat."

"A monster," Joshua quietly corrected, ignoring her jibe about the dead man with an eerily expressionless look. A satisfied glimmer shone deep in his eyes, cold, brutal and snappish—as if he had already know the identity of the dead man, and had been simply waiting for her testimony.

Annika felt startled at the offhand comment. "What?"

"Lanius was a monster made from the fires of Hell—crafted by the Devil himself, I think. He certainly wasn't a man of flesh, and was hardly worth the bloody price of redemption." He ignored the reprimanding glance that Daniel shot him, and continued with a grave tone steeped in tones of bitterness, "I would certainly know what monsters look like, child."

Annika shook her head, goosebumps quickly rising along the flesh of her bare arms. It was an uncomfortable, pricking sensation that she disliked immensely. "Well, he's dead, so I don't think it matters much anymore."

Joshua stared at her oddly. "Did you kill him?" His linen-enshrouded head was cloaked in a tense darkness that slowly permeated his whole body, as if it were an otherworldly poison, radiating off him with a strange, clawing eagerness.

Annika swallowed the dry lump stuck in her throat, sternly gazing down at her enfolded hands. She nodded once, swiftly. "He followed me all through the canyons here, and tried to overpower me. The journey weakened him, though, and made him mighty careless. I severed one of his arteries and pushed him off a cliff, but misjudged my footing and fell with him. I'm still not sure how I survived without broken limbs."

She missed the shared glances between Joshua and Daniel that flashed back and forth like bolts of lightning, which were mutual in twisted expressions of wonder, concern, and silent agreement. She was too busy picking apart the muddled swarms of her flashing thoughts which surrounded her in a mountainous, guilty heap of unwanted flashbacks that flew vividly before her without consent.

 _The mountains and deep rocky ravines spread out before her in a tantalising invitation to her yearning soul, showing her an open, breathtaking view of snaking blue rivers and trees—actual, real trees—before she heard scuffling footsteps, loud and heavy behind her on the scenic bluffs. She wheeled about, bringing up a knife when—_

Daniel nudged her elbow, giving her a gentle smile that hid the worried edge in his amiable words that followed next. Annika blinked, startled from her reveries. "Do you think anyone else would have reason to follow you?"

For half a heartbeat, and just that, Annika immediately thought of a grimy but charming young man who had once greeted her just outside the smoking vicinity of Nipton, and then later at the Tops, but quickly shoved it away from her in a blind panic.

"No," she swiftly answered, "I wouldn't think so. Only the Legate and Caesar really were interested in me, and both are corpses now, rotting away in their ugly uniforms. The NCR made sure of the latter and you already know about Lanius."

She heard a small rustling noise, and found Joshua to be staring at her intently with an unruffled blankness to his character. "You are speaking the truth? About Caesar?"

Annika felt her hackles rise, mentally chastising herself when an unwarranted outburst left her mouth in a rush of angry words as she leaned forwards almost eagerly with shaking fingers. "I was there when it happened. The NCR decided to put me on the front lines of combat."

Daniel seemed shocked, frowning deeply. "How old were you?" he asked, obviously disgruntled at the news.

"I was sixteen and a half," Annika said flatly. It was still a sore and tender spot for her. "The battle itself happened not that long ago. They wanted me to be there for morale. I disappeared soon after everything—otherwise I would have likely been conscripted or shot. I was too wild and unpredictable for their tastes. I heard about Zion by rumours, so I bought a map from some caravaners and made a decision off the top of my head."

"And you went alone?"

Annika nodded. "Well, yeah. I thought it would be safer, and I know how to take care of myself."

"Mostly," Joshua intervened, still pensive and deep in thought.

She resisted the ridiculous urge to roll her eyes, surprised at her easy response, "Mostly."

Daniel scratched his sparse but well-maintained beard. "You've met the Dead Horses, yet there are other, less friendly tribes wandering around out there. I come from the Sorrows, who are peaceful enough, and rather innocent in the ways of warfare." Here he fixed her with a pitiable look. "But more have come flooding in, calling themselves the White Legs—they seek to destroy the rich and plentiful lands, wishing to join Caesar."

"He's dead, though," Annika protested. "I made sure of that."

Daniel responded with a grim look, "So you say, but that remains unknown to them. I fear the retaliation when they eventually find out such dire news, as it is inevitable and only a matter of time. It'll likely send all their leaders into a maddened frenzy, and I cannot condone any senseless violence sure to spring up in its wake."

Joshua sat up straighter, terser. Once again, an unspoken conversation abruptly passed between them in the span of a millisecond, filled with heated looks and frowns. "I am not leaving, Daniel, and neither are the Dead Horses. Our fight is here."

"At least send away the women and children," Daniel pleaded, leaning forwards and pushing back the brim of his felt hat until the fire illuminated his open face. "The Sorrows have already done so, and simply await my signal to leave altogether. We cannot wait for much longer—hiding up in the Narrows solves nothing and creates tension. There is little game there, and the soil is unforgiving."

"Then go," Joshua snapped irately, "But I will not cower and flee from this place. If I cannot properly deal with a rabbling band of superstitious simpletons, then I am not worthy to lead the Dead Horses, and deserve to be left here of my own accord."

Daniel's mouth was set in a hard, unbroken line. They must have been arguing for a long time, as he seemed to give in without much of a fight. "I hope you change your mind," he replied wearily, rising to his feet before directing a softened glance at Annika. "Innocent lives shouldn't be lost because of injured pride."

Joshua made a rasping noise borne from frustration and annoyance. "I will consider it," he finally said, his eyes flinty like chips of unyielding stone. "But the White Legs cannot stay here without endangering other travellers, and I won't allow that to happen. The Happy Trails caravan should be here within a few weeks, at the most. What then?"

"So you talk of slaughter," Daniel said harshly, "and in the meantime while you dither about and make godless excuses, everyone around the camps will be put in more further danger than necessary."

Joshua shook his head, his patchy eyebrows knitting and contorting themselves into an angry dance of barely contained emotion. "I talk of the inevitable, Daniel. It would happen either way."

Daniel looked decades older at that particular moment, pinching his nose and letting out an inaudible sigh. "Please, just . . . just reconsider," he said, dusting off his leather coat and standing.

Joshua's tone was biting. "I said I would—hopefully, my word is enough to please your demands for the present. In the meantime, I have other pressing issues to attend to."

Daniel glared, fixing his hat with quick, unstable hands. "Very well, if that is your wish. I suppose we can reconvene at a later, more convenient time to your liking. I've come and said all I wanted." He shot a look at Annika. "Take care, child. I'm sorry to have brought you into this situation."

Annika returned his pious gaze, glancing up through her long eyelashes. "I will."

He fumbled about, flushing a little before turning on his heels and stalking off into the weathered doorway, the enveloping darkness soon swallowing him whole like a small child devouring its dessert with a greedy relish. Then she was left completely alone with Joshua.

"Are you hungry?"

She glanced at him, her stomach fluttering from the undivided attention that he generously gave her. It was a simple, innocent gesture, but it left her ears burning all the same. "A little. I didn't get to eat much before being called over here."

Joshua tilted his head in a subtle nod. "I have some nonperishables in here, if you'd like some. They're certainly not as good as what the cooks can make outside, yet are serviceable when needed."

"Alright," Annika said. She glanced at the leather-bound book on his lap before meeting his gaze again, and could have sworn that the pristine bandages around his mouth quirked into a small smile before vanishing. "It can't be worse than what's in New Vegas."

His periwinkle eyes danced briefly over her hunched figure, then Joshua stood upright and walked off, rooting around in some wooden crates near the bottom of the incline. He soon came back with handfuls of dried yucca, a dented box filled with musty-smelling cakes, and a beige can of purified water.

"How do you eat?" Annika asked, watching as he took his seat again near the fire. Her cheeks rapidly turned a gentle hue of crimson as she looked away, realising the rudeness of such an impertinent question.

Joshua thought for a minute before replying, "Very carefully."

Her lips pursed. "Oh," she replied, surprised that he had deigned to answer, and with some wry amusement, too.

She watched as he stirred the glowing red-hot embers by way of a twisted metal rod, before craning her head backwards to stare at the thin trails of smoke which disappeared through minuscule holes peppered all over the ancient ceiling, like craggy dimples. Some had veined leaves partly covering them in a motherly caress of dried foliage, while others let in a spattering of inky starlight that shone timidly upon their heads.

"I apologise for bringing you into a middle of the argument Daniel had with me. I did not think him to be so adamant."

Annika gently turned the can of water over in her hands, catching a whiff of cedar pine shavings and musk as she opened it with prying fingers. The cold water burned her throat, bringing a sharp relief to her otherwise burning thirst. It tasted far better than the alcoholic milk from earlier, and held no bitterness.

Joshua shook his head, continuing, "It was a useless conversation, and potentially dangerous. Daniel can be mulish and thick-headed sometimes beyond the point of reason, using religion as a crutch for everything he does."

"What he said made sense, though," Annika ventured, quickly cracking a sideways look to see his reaction. "I'm talking about the women and children, I mean. They're innocents. They—they shouldn't have to pay for the mistakes of others."

Joshua noticed the sad little look that blossomed in her eyes with a grave astuteness, clasping his hands together. "So it does. But if I were to actually send them away, many of the warriors would follow to ensure the safety of their loved ones. It would put the others at far greater risk, and leave a large opening for the White Legs to attack were they smart enough to realise it."

"What are you planning to do, then?" Annika asked after a brief moment, opening the box of pre-war cakes and wrinkling her nose at the metallic scent that wafted upwards from the plastic packages.

He exhaled, a conflicted look momentarily dancing across his blue eyes—but the indecision was gone so quickly that she nearly believed to have imaged the whole thing. "I don't know as of yet. A decision must needs be made, though, as time is dwindling faster than I'd prefer."

After that, a companionable quiet settled between them, soft and hazy. Annika slowly ate, staring at nothing in particular as Joshua turned to reading the holy book once again, his fingers flipping through the translucent pages with a practised ease. Its mottled cover was cracked and careworn, and a silver cross was emblazoned across the front like a symbol of truth.

"Why did you believe me about Caesar?" Annika asked, her voice breaking the silence as she brushed the crumbs from the shirt. However, they remained fastidious, sticking to the folds of her garment with an air of resentment.

Joshua paused, his hands skimming the spidery words as he glanced upwards. "I saw Lanius down by the river. His corpse was proof enough."

She tilted her head, a flicker of surprise skittering across her wide eyes. "How so?"

He laid the book down, staring not unkindly at her. "A foul creature like him would not have tracked a small slip of a girl unless she had done enough harm to the Legion to warrant such a harsh reaction," he explained, lifting up a hand. "If you had truly caused the downfall of everything he knew, he would hunt you to the ends of the earth.

"Even if he hated Caesar?"

Joshua gave her a grim look. "Especially if he hated Caesar."

Annika felt cold, then, thinking of another man who would undoubtedly come looking for her with ideas of revenge. She prayed to anything which listened that he would stay lost forever, searching fruitlessly in the endless dunes and arid climates of the ruthless Mojave Desert—for, unlike Lanius, this man was truly a monster, and one that she deeply feared to meet again.

And he would not give up so easily despite what she had led the others to believe of his disinterest and possible demise by way of a silent omission.


	7. Chapter 6

"How are you feeling?"

Annika turned, grinning sheepishly with folded arms. "Better," she replied, sliding her inquisitive gaze away from Joshua, who had been sitting outside in the breezy afternoon, teaching the younger children how to fasten makeshift spears out of twigs and sharp pebbles. "All of my wounds are basically healed, and they don't hurt nearly as much anymore."

Follows-Chalk smiled in return, as it had been him to initiate the conversation. "That is good to hear, my friend."

She nodded, her warm, friendly expression fading just a bit. "I'm glad to be up and moving about more easily. But I'm still not allowed to exert myself."

"Ah." Follows-Chalk beamed at her, his rich eyes sparkling in the sunlight, their depths shimmering and twisting away like darting shadows. "He can sometimes be worse than a clucking hen, no?"

Annika looked everywhere but at him, shyly curling her toes into the soft, loamy dirt and smothering a laugh. "Who?"

Follows-Chalk sighed heavily, as if in defeat. "I meant Joshua."

"Oh, he's definitely worse." She shot him a playful glare. "I would almost prefer to deal with a horde of angry deathclaws." Her face fell, then, as if remembering something.

"Well you would blend in with them," Follows-Chalk retorted, a mocking look of long-suffering on his broad face before giving a mega-watt grin that reached up to his ears. She glanced back at him, startled from her thoughts as he slyly pointed to her skinny legs—they were caked in layers of dried mud, the earthy substance flaking off her bare feet and ankles with each movement. It created a filmy, gritty expanse between her toes. She had yet to wash them in the stream, and the cheeky comment made her face flush a deep scarlet.

"At least I don't smell absolutely awful," Annika said, plugging her nose with two fingers for emphasis and shaking her tousled head of hair in a gesture of defiance. "You need more than a simple dunk in the river, you filthy degenerate."

Follows-Chalk gave a nonchalant shrug, remarkably unaffected by her tart response. "Yah, them Bighorners get ripe real bad without proper shearing and stuff."

Annika bit her tongue before asking, "What were you doing with the Bighorners?" She was more than a little inquisitive at what he got up to when she wasn't around.

Follows-Chalk snorted, repressing a sigh. "I was leading some of the tamer ones down for pasture by the old docks. There's good cud there for them to chew. A lot have been getting colicky lately, though."

"I thought you were a scout, not a shepherd," Annika teased, although her voice was far from unkind or malicious; rather, it held an insatiable note of curiosity as she tilted her small chin upwards and blinked owlishly like a bespectacled scholar.

"I'm not a proper one, not yet." He looked mildly disappointed, then, but smothered it before the expression could properly flourish. "I simply follow the chalk signs on the trail-ways until I have more experience with hunting and everything."

Annika perked up, a metaphorical lightbulb going off behind her bright, shining eyes that shimmered like the daintiest webs of spun gossamer. "Is that how you got your name? Follows-Chalk?"

He gave an affirmation. "Every tribespeople is given a name by others when they reach a certain age. It is a tradition that has spanned hundreds of years. Maybe even before the Back-When stuff."

She frowned, staring at the swift river with a thoughtful look on her beguiling face. She moved closer to the sandy banks, the rough, wet sand squelching against the soles of her feet. "That doesn't seem very fair," she murmured, more to herself than anything. "What if you don't like what everyone calls you?"

Follows-Chalk joined her on the shoreline, looking deeply uncomfortable. "It is not my place to question the rules set forth by the wise shamans."

Annika silently nodded, feeling the pleasant breeze whip the rampant curls of her hair into golden eddies which floated around her face and neck, beckoning anyone nearby to come closer still for a better glance at the sprite-like being a girl. She listened to the languid sound of minuscule waves gently overlapping each other, caressing the pebbles and sand with an eerily quiet touch.

Then she spoke, her small lips moving in a hoarse whisper, barely audible above the domestic noises surrounding them in the background, "Where I came from, everyone—and I mean everyone, not just the hoighty-toighty leaders and higher-ups—picked their own names after a . . . a ritual of sorts."

Follows-Chalk seemed positively mesmerised, drinking in every syllable with a rapt expression of childish wonder and interest. "And what happened in them rituals?"

Annika chuckled, but the sound was throaty, unpleasant, and felt oddly painful for the both of them. "Something very . . . terrible. You had to do it, though. There wasn't a choice involved. Yet I never got the chance to actually complete anything, so I just kept the name my parents gave me at birth."

Follows-Chalk held his breath, staring over at the thunderous clouds that hung on the very edge of the blue horizon, appearing out of nowhere like an ill omen. They were dark, ominous, and moisture-laden, as if promising to break open the skies at the slightest mishap of nature. "I am sorry that such a bad thing happened to you," he finally said, feeling awkward and immensely sad beyond reason. "You are my friend—it pains me to see you so."

"Yeah, me too," Annika replied half-heartedly, biting her bottom lip and repressing her turbulent emotions. For a scant few minutes there was a complete and sullen silence that cloaked them.

Then, she glanced at him sideways, a remarkable transformation suddenly overtaking her as she straightened up like a whiplash, her arms swaying in the fragrant wind. It enlivened her innocent expression when she feverishly gazed over at him with a large, sweet smile that animated her honey-brown eyes and rosy mouth. "Enough of my caterwaulin'. I don't suppose there's something fun we can do around here?"

Follows-Chalk was at a sudden loss for words, blushing and fumbling with the collar of his beaded necklace. "There are the Bighorners."

She raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."

"Well—they usually live up in the mountains and let us take them down to pasture, but lately . . . hoo! My guess is that one of the calves got lost along the way, which explains their aggressiveness. Bighorners are communal animals, you see—just one calf goes missing, and the whole herd becomes stirred into a big hairy frenzy. If that calf doesn't turn up soon, they might very well start attacking us for no reason."

"It certainly sounds interesting," Annika retorted. There was a forced cheeriness to her tone as she gave a stiff smile that split across her freckled face almost unnaturally, making her seem clownish in the shafts of bright sunlight. "The local wildlife around here doesn't lack for enthusiasm."

Follows-Chalk huffed. "That it doesn't, though why I don't got no good hint. Zion is normally peaceful."

"Maybe my appearance served as a catalyst," Annika joked, albeit her sharp response and serious mannerisms were anything but comical. "I cause trouble everywhere I go. It's inevitable, I'm afraid."

Follows-Chalk scoffed. "I don't doubt it," he said, a smile lingering around the corners of his mouth.

She planted a hand on her hip. "So what do you suggest doing?"

"We pick some stalks of banana yucca and go looking for the lost calf up in the canyons above the camps. Them critters really love the sweet fruit." Follows-Chalk suddenly looked hesitant, as if something had transpired in his head, like a flash of lightning; he scuffled his worn sandals over the green grass, torn with indecision. "We would have to ask Joshua permission, first. He might not want you hurting yourself."

It was Annika's turn to scoff. "Is that a challenge?" she said lightly, giving him a large, toothy grin before jogging towards the caverns at a brisk pace. "He said not to overwork myself. I hardly think that collecting plants and climbing up a few hills counts as exertion."

It didn't take her long to collect her Pip-Boy, an age-old duffel bag, a deerskin pouch filled with different powders, and the remnants of what was left of her leather armour. The lattermost she quickly strapped to her thin body; beneath it she wore black leggings and the same billowy shirt. Strangely, she had become attached to it. The fabric smelled clean and sharp, like a white-hot blade being pressed against pine shavings.

"We should tell Joshua," Follows-Chalk said, watching as she reemerged from the darkening caves, a bright smile fixed on her curved and dazzling lips. Her fine eyes were filled by a curious attention incandescent with the youthful perplexities included in a ripening fruit, and shone even further when she caught sight of him, like dashing comets falling from the heavenly skies. She was already raring to go off on the adventure, and had forgotten her earlier troubles.

"I'll wait," Annika said, testing the sharpness of a knife before deftly sliding it into one of her boots. "I doubt that he'll refuse us."

And Joshua didn't. Instead, he silently watched them walk up a gentle dirt incline that overlooked the sprawling camps, following their slow progress alongside the zigzagging trails and waterfalls until they were just tiny specks in the beautiful landscape of craggy bluffs, grey-green sentinels, and slippery rockfalls, nearly lost to sight by the pinpricks of blinding sunshine.

He had allowed for the little escapade to continue on the single condition of a rather reasonable promise— one which they had scarcely been able to refuse. It was that the bantering pair of excitable friends were to make themselves exercise caution in the face of any real danger, and to come back before sundown in time for supper.

Somehow, intuition told Joshua that they wouldn't listen.

()()()()()

Bighorners were much bigger up close, Annika decided. They were huge, smelly beasts of awkward proportions, with woolly hindquarters and nasty-looking horns that reached upwards in squat yellow spindles. Their square teeth chomped noisily at shorn grass and tender shoots of vegetation as patchy tails flicked buzzing flies away in a lazy attempt to be left well alone.

"Do you see anything?" Follows-Chalk asked, crouched stealthily amongst a cropped sward of ferns.

Annika peeled keen eyes away from the conspicuous binoculars that she held tightly, scrubbing the grit off her face with the back of a clenched hand. "No. We'll have to get closer for a better look."

Sweat beaded his upper lip. "I thought so," he quietly replied, nodding his head in a confirmation of understanding. "These things are never easy to do."

Together, they climbed down a stony outcrop in nearly perfect tandem, stopping next to a scraggly copse of shady evergreens and greyish-blue sycamores. It was almost evening, and the creamy iridescent skies were slowly turning a moon-kissed twilight that enveloped everything with a sense of solemn reflection, bathing the striped canyons, winding streams, and rocky arches in dimly glinting silhouettes of silver.

Truly, it was a magical sight, but Annika felt only dejected. They had spent the whole day gleaming through the trails, searching for fewmets and small hoofprints to little avail. Now it was too late to continue searching successfully, and nothing had showed up for their hard work as a reward. She was thirsty, sore, and beyond exhausted—yet the thought of giving in was detestable.

"Joshua will want us back," Follows-Chalk said, his expression unconvincing with the unwanted desire to return empty-handed.

He looked how she felt. _Good_ , Annika thought, biting her lip and inwardly sighing. She dangled a foot off the incline, letting the wind scour her cheeks into a rosy blush. Despite the waning time, the air was flush with humidity, draping them in invisible layers of sweat.

The tired and irritated fellowship between them was blatantly unmistakeable—they weren't losers, and a few glances reaffirmed it when the heated silence solidified as something sharply tangible. They became even more emboldened by the lack of proper supervision.

"It is getting late," Follows-Chalk said, his voice reedy and uncertain. He was one of those people who had a stupid, open face—there wasn't a single trace of cunning on it, so his eyes held a perpetual warmth to them. That is not to say he was unintelligent, but merely kind and reliable. In some ways he was more naive than Annika, for he had never been treated unjustly.

Annika smiled wickedly, seeing the faithful, dogged look in his eyes. "So it is."

They continued looking.

()()()()()

The fragrant aroma of yucca wafted around them, its natural perfume tickling Annika's nostrils with a floral, cloying scent. She was really beginning to hate it when she abruptly dug in her heels, heedlessly throwing out a hand to stop Follows-Chalk. "Ssh!"

He peered at her owlishly. "What is it?"

"Listen!"

And there it was, almost beyond the proper range of human hearing; a soft, disgruntled mewling that came from behind a sweeping range of tall red rocks. The thorny bushes and bracken thinned out considerably, pouring into shallow ditches that fanned each side of the weather-faded trail, and which were painted startlingly shades of white by the moonlight.

"I see the calf!" Annika pointed, standing upright and smiling giddily like she had won a special prize at a fair. There wasn't a single thought of danger in her mind as she brushed the loose dirt from her knees and approached the lost animal with cooing noises.

It stood there, lost and befuddled. The young cow kept turning about with alarmed squeaks, stomping its cloven hoofs in a purposeless despair—as if it knew where the end of its destination was, but could not fathom the circumstances to get there. A lingering smell of cow-pies and stale hay clung to its shaggy brown coat, and wet leaves were stuck around the forelock which lay against its skinny, elongated head.

Follows-Chalk nodded, following her footsteps as he swiftly fetched a handful of crushed yucca from the leather satchel that he carried for such purposes. "Indeed—we have succeeded in our quest!"

Annika gave a sweet laugh. It was a breathy sound, resembling silver bells that twinkled. She reached out slim fingers to the cowering calf, bending downwards at the waist. "There, now. It's ok." She tenderly fed it morsels of the withering fruit, letting its absurdly large tongue lap at her hands until they were wet and sticky with saliva. "You're safe."

"It's taken a shine to you."

Annika glanced over her shoulder with sparkling eyes. "Do you think that Joshua would let me keep the poor little baby?"

Follows-Chalk shook his head, an insufferable look crossing his face. "I'm sure that he wouldn't refuse you, my friend, but the calf likely wants its mother more."

"Hmm." She stroked the animal's silky nose in contemplation, then turned around the grab a rope from her duffel bag. "Let's hope he won't b—"

She never got to finish the sentence, as all the breath suddenly left her lungs in an inaudible whoosh, making her speechless and in a disquieted state of numbness that was afforded only to those who experienced perilous situations such as these, leaving them slack-jawed and deaf to everything important. For, lo and behold, a dark silhouette loomed in the deepening shadows behind them, pawing the ground and snorting through a fat, mutilated nose.

It was the biggest, roughest, ugliest, and meanest-looking Bighorner that Annika had ever clapped eyes on. The mountainous heaps of its greasy fur dragged against the ground in silent whispers, gathering up any stray bits of detritus into its folds with each jerky movement, as if it were displaying a menagerie of novelties in the mangy, flea-bitten hairs of its coat for a strange amusement.

 _Oh, hell._ She stood stock-still like a wooden soldier, her back ramrod straight and her fingers barely twitching with the undeniable traces of fear.

The beast was at least sixteen hands high, with a broad, double-barrelled chest and the deepest, blackest eyes possible—one of which had already been crudely gouged out by a spear, only leaving behind a glittering socket of puss as a cruel testament to its strength. There was a horrendous, breathtaking noise that quickly assaulted them, splitting their ears in a painful crescendo; it sounded not unlike a rogue locomotive running off its tracks and violently crashing into a TNT-laden mine.

 _It's challenging us,_ Annika thought faintly, realising the truth of the matter with shaky, quiet gasps.

The Bighorner almost seemed to nod in agreement, raising and lowering its huge horns to the nighttime sky. It bellowed again, brassy and loud, before snorting and mashing thick teeth together. A bubbling froth of saliva dribbled from its massive lips onto the ground, forming puddles and wilting the surrounding fauna—as if the globs of spittle were acid, and not harmless slobber.

The calf had all but disappeared, vanishing like smoke—and Annika had begun to think it a sick, silly prank when she finally took notice of the yellowing bones and half-rotted cadavers that were strewn carelessly about. Most, if not all of them were fairly recent, condemning the two humans to the same grisly fate with empty smiles devoid of decoration and flesh.

The agonising truth dawned in cold waves of realisation, too late by just a few minutes of discarded time. The pungent aroma of death surrounded them in misty layers, ensnaring their feet and tripping them up. It was choking and slick, clinging to the back of Annika's throat with a raw feeling of persistence. She could barely breathe through the wet, heady scents of darkness and banana yucca; for the lattermost grew thickly here, blossoming sweetly—the leaves had hidden the grotesque scene until the last second, sweeping back like velvet curtains at a peepshow.

They hadn't been tricked—the Bighorners were certainly rankled from something, but it wasn't because of some missing calf in the canyons. No, the facts lay bare before them, resembling the skeletons—it all seemed simple and straightforward in retrospect. One of their very own had turned by a strange bout of madness, and was going around with a cannibalistic mindset.

"Follows-Chalk," Annika murmured, her eyes wide, "Run."

And run they did.

The beast roared as a response, charging blackly through the sharp brambles with a staggering bluntness of pace. Annika jackknifed sideways in a spinning blur, quickly scooping up the duffel bag and sprinting as fast as she could. She didn't dare look back.

"This way!" Follows-Chalk shouted, grabbing the back of her collar and roughly shoving her forwards into a rocky crevasse that shot upwards for close to two hundred feet.

Annika yelped, "What is this?!"

His face was flush from exertion and a starlit terror as he shouted, "A shortcut!"

They spoke no more, choosing instead to push themselves even further. They carefully slipped down inclines of loose pebbles, creating avalanches of clattering stones behind them—then they climbed up over deep ravines filled with brackish ditchwater until they reached a roughhewn crossroads of sorts, sprinting for everything that they were worth. All the while the Bighorner screamed angrily behind them and gave chase, resembling an English overlord on an old-fashioned fox hunt that was flushing out its minuscule prey.

The seconds seemed like hours as they dashed here and there at breakneck speed, everything whirling past them in a rollercoaster of constant motion. Annika felt her stitches tear, holding a shaky hand to her injured side as she clumsily tripped and fell, a curse spilling past her parted lips. She could hear the maddened animal shrieking in anger, and she imagined it less than ten feet off, breathing down their necks and chomping away on its frothing gums.

 _Oh, fucking hell._ It was enough to make her pick herself up and scramble into another burst of speed, ignoring the drops of crimson that delicately slipped from her fingertips like petals.

A pale lustre of sweat shone on the both of them, equally coating their desperate faces as they suddenly broke out onto a large clearing of waist-high grass—right into the middle of the remaining Bighorners, all of whom were deep in a blissful sleep.

 _Shit, shit._ Annika shuddered for breath, spinning around as she fumbled for the revolver tucked safely inside the bag. _Oh, God._

Follows-Chalk placed a hand on her arm, his brown face unusually calm. He then detached himself, moving into the thick of the herd and thigh-deep strips of chaff.

"What on earth are you doing?" Annika demanded breathlessly, her voice a pained hiss full of panic. Her fingers were fumbling around with the clasps and zippers of the bag as if they were coated in butter, acutely feeling her wounds reopen all at once. It was a brutal feeling, and her complexion paled considerably from the loss of blood. "We don't have time for this!"

He flashed her a grim smile. "I am doing something rash." He moved into a firm stance, cupping tattooed hands around his lips and issuing forth an undulating war-call. It started off harsh and low and animalistic before flaring in volume, quickly becoming a guttural screech that eerily resonated around the meadow.

If pandemonium was his desired effect, then Follows-Chalk could not have completed it more admirably. The Bighorners awoke almost instantly, stirred into a confused frenzy by the loud commotions. They trampled each other in their haste, snorting and giving off territorial grunts as they cantered everywhere in lopsided circles.

Annika raised a hand, the prisms of moonlight nearly blinding her as she stood there open-mouthed like an idiot. It would have been an amusing sight were it not for the danger—she could distinctly hear the insane bull right behind them, stomping its hooves off stones and grass alike, tearing everything apart and making a proper ruckus in the insanities of its primal rage.

She shook her head with bewilderment, and this time it was her that grabbed Follows-Chalk and tugged him along. The flustered groups of Bighorners, in all the chaos and mayhem, began to follow them in a steady stream of scared, crashing animals that smelled strongly of manure. Soon, though, they overcame them in a waterfall of terror, dashing ahead towards a generous dirt path.

"No, no!" Follows-Chalk cried, being pulled off-course in a dizzying somersault. "They are heading right for the camps!"

"It was your bloody idea," Annika snapped back, the flying heat of the moment making her snippy and cross. She had to shout at the very top of her lungs to be heard.

Then, the next events seemed to happen in a rush of slow motion, horrifying them both into a stupefied silence years later. They were abruptly separated by the rush of startled animals, their hands briefly raising to each other, soaring up, up into the merciless sky before dipping back down out of sight.

Annika was tossed around like a rag-doll, a swift blackness soon seeping into her head that dissolved any rational thought, and which submerged her into a brief unconsciousness. She could not remember things clearly until much later, coming to on a large, bulbous rock that overlooked a churning river. She groaned, pain flourishing behind her eyes with buzzing sparks. It was excruciating, refusing to stop for a second—and any sort of cogitation or impressionable feeling made it far, far worse.

She wanted to resign herself to fate, as her whole body throbbed relentlessly, and everything felt stupidly _cold_. As it was, it took a determined effort to remove herself from her bloody repose and stand upright on the ledge. She clutched furious hands to her scalp, checking for bumps and bruises—and when her fingertips came away with flaky patches of red clinging to the skin, a soft whimper escaped her.

She shivered and walked about in a paltry attempt to get warm, her teeth chattering together as she scrubbed at her red-rimmed eyes to clear them of grit and sand. The taste of sandpaper coated her tongue, scraping uncomfortable against her mouth as she stumbled around like a newborn foal.

The remaining dregs of Annika's strength fled from her swollen and tender ankles, forcing her to lean against a mossy boulder to catch her breath, her fingers digging into the fungus for support. It was so, so cold now—yet completely snowless, as if the very atmosphere was mocking her. The vapours expelled from her mouth quickly changed into transparent eddies that thrashed back at her face like the icy scourges of a rough whip.

Annika couldn't help but constantly shiver in response, prickles of gooseflesh rising along her arms at the merest thought of hypothermia. _Just a little further_ , she scolded, desperate to push herself to safety and warmth. _You can't give up_.

And so she walked and walked until her feet were bloody. It was by some form of miraculous Providence that she found a familiar landmark at all, bruised and battered as she was, for she had lost any sense of direction in the stampede. An innumerable amount of hours could have passed by in the blink of an eye—or it could have been simply minutes, as her sense of time was greatly sabotaged from the distortion of pain and exhaustion.

But when she did finally arrive on the outskirts of her destination it was almost evening. She looked bewildered, then, for the handsome forests surrounding her were awash in a lavender hue, sparkling with glittery dewdrops and folded-up svelte flowers—it painted such a contrasting picture as, ahead of her around the curve of the river, she saw half-hearted fires, trampled pathways, and rent teepees.

Oh—oh.

 _The Dead Horses' camp is gone_ , Annika thought, wringing her hands together like a stubborn fishwife.

And standing in the midst of the carnage was Joshua.


	8. Chapter 7

_New Vegas, 2281: Outside the fringes of Nipton_

()()()()()

Ashy smoke rose into the copper-coloured heavens, clouding the fresh air with its sifting impurities. The mellow rays of sunlight, as seen through these pollutants, held a lurid metallic look which became oddly sinister and malignant in the sweltering background, as if it were a bloated, diseased thing that struck down anything it dared to touch. The surrounding fields and honeycombed ridges which backed the desolate town were tainted with an unknown destruction, and a monochrome sallowness besieged the withering crops and stucco houses with a blanketing caution of unspeakable horror.

Annika swallowed thickly and stared straight ahead, her vision wavering in the shimmering heat like the twin mirages of a nightmare. She took in the hopeless scene with disbelieving eyes and a gaping half-open mouth, her cracked lips parted in a silent gasp of horrific denial.

Large black tires were piled upon one another in massive, sticky droves of sizzling rubber, forming shapeless piles which promised countless atrocities as of yet untold. Her nostrils burned something fierce as a horrendous smell drifted upwards from the bubbling commotion, befouling the crisp skies with a bluish-grey smokiness that obscured the besmirched innocence of sunlight into a despairing reluctance of a drab haze.

It was not, however, the deplorable stench of death that made her trembled with indescribable fear. It wasn't even the half-melted corpses strewn about the wetly glistening tar, or the brown skeletal trees that scratched their bare branches against the yellow horizon in a harsh, whispering embrace.

It was the brazen red flag that caught her attention, with its cloth-of-gold stitching and macabre design of a prancing bull. The wild animal stood proudly against the tattered canvas, with blood dripping from its horns that was an even deeper shade of crimson than the original fabric.

The blasphemous sigil stood on a tall wooden pole, its fringed edges rippling in the warm breeze like a twisted proclamation of fate. The vileness of its sudden presence was enough to make Annika step backwards in apprehension, although there was nothing but lingering shadows nearby.

 _Legion_ , Annika thought, unable to stop staring with shock at the unfortunate sight. She shivered despite the stifling heat of the Mojave desert. _The tribals didn't do this. It was the Legion._

She had only heard stories about the infamous butchers, yet an overwhelming sense of despair had already gripped her frozen instincts with a vice-like weightlessness of a sputtering addict. Annika felt a primal dread creeping down her spine as she stood there, unable to move.

 _Leave,_ Annika screamed at herself. _There's nothing here. Just—just leave already._ Her limbs felt leaden and numb, as if she were swimming through thick, syrupy molasses. The air was too heady, too warm, and her heart-shaped face was already flush with an unhealthy sickness borne from malevolent spirits haunting the air.

She knew what had happened, as no other explanation was required beyond the fluttering symbol of vermilion. All she needed to do was turn around and hightail it back to the Mojave Outpost until she was safe behind NCR borders. Their soldiers would surely retake the town, and with sufficient bottle-caps she could leave for good and never look back.

Yet she didn't. A displaced noise tore her attention from the mesmerising sight, and when Annika casted an askew glance at the disturbance, she inhaled a sharp gasp and clutched at her pallid mouth with trembling fingers.

There was a terrified scream stuck rawly in her throat as all her senses became immediately arrested upon a bloodied gangster with an empty, wide-eyed gaze borne from petrification. He soared above her like the nightmare of a mutilated ragdoll held against its own feeble will, the shadows casting an unspoken damnation from the hovering vultures nearby.

"What . . ." Annika violently shook her head in spasms and forced herself to breathe, the thin tendrils of smoke smothering her lungs.

His blue-and-white clothes were torn apart into merciless shreds, and he hung from a large wooden cross with rusted nails buried in his sunburnt palms and ankles. Fresh blood drippled from his cracked, shaking lips, coating his neck and peeling skin in a glistening river of denounced shame. The realisation that he was a Powder Ganger, and likely deserved such a gruesome fate from his previous actions, deserted Annika completely as she held the unwavering gaze of the dying man with plain denial in her watery pupils.

"They crucified you," Annika mumbled shakily. "Oh . . . Oh."

Then she saw that there were more, scores of them, hanging in pristine rows of endless crosses and protruding limbs. Some bore thorny crowns, whilst others were completely naked, but the effect was the same in a magnanimous manner of suffering and unendurable pain. The man closest to Annika gave a hoarse, rattling whimper, drawing her from the grotesque scene with a plaintive request that couldn't be possibly misunderstood. He tried again, and again, but was unable to formulate spoken words.

Annika watched him for a few moments before comprehending. _I don't have enough bullets,_ she thought, shaking her head with despair. _I cannot spare them all._

But, Powder Gangers or not, Annika refused to believe that such atrocities were deserving of any such person. It was too monstrous to think such a way, and led to endless suffering in the sulphurous pits of Hell. The pain and wicked sorrow inscribed upon the countless faces made her anguish for the dying thugs.

She forced the emotion from her, finding a resoluteness in her wavering courage. She knew what it was like to face death. The chilling emptiness of a similar traumatising event had left her a wastrel, unimportant and consumed by a ghostly paleness which clung to her shapely silhouette at all times.

Any possible dregs of redemption was far from the gangsters' debased souls, but a cold comfort of mercy could be served to them, and she might find some peace in knowing that she had tried to the best of her abilities.

Staunchly, Annika unholstered her 10mm pistol and braced her spindly legs apart for support. It did not matter, though, as her hands still trembled, and there was a hollowness in her stomach as she took careful aim at the prostrate criminal.

 _Breathe in,_ Annika thought, closing her honey-brown eyes for the briefest of moments as she remembered the lessons that Sunny Smiles had taught her outside Goodsprings. _Take your time. Don't rush or you'll miss._

Flashes of blinding and unwanted memories ran through her head, far too muddied and distant for Annika to understand. Her skin gleamed with the hot flashes of nightmares, perspiring in the sunlight as she swallowed back a muffled noise. She felt the spotting geysers of imaginary blood spattering her face—again and again—as it had once done so long ago in a place she could not name, yet which wouldn't leave her be. It was a weighty pendulum of foreign horrors, cruelly waving unfamiliar and unforgivable things in front of her without mercy, as if giving the faint mockery of surrender.

Time turned sluggish and became frozen fragments of a greedy reclamation as the moment trudged onwards into several tense minutes which felt like hours, and yet only seconds in the span of the same breath. She tasted the nonexistent stench of acrid gunpowder on her shaking tongue, and saw the endless rows upon rows of crimson berets, flashing scopes, and the piles of dead corpses beneath the full scarlet moon.

It was so much like here, but not. The differences were inconsequential nuances as Annika gasped, the horrific moments flickering into nothingness as she was forced to blink back unshed tears that threatened to fall. Her chest ached fiercely, for she could not remember who she was but for the pain and the cruel, cruel suffering.

Was she from the NCR? Annika did not think so, as the name felt bitter, swiftly turning to ashes in her mouth despite hearing its dark praises wherever she travelled. A mixture of profound sadness and confusion bled into her face as she couldn't fully understand the extent of her muddled thoughts, and thereby shunned the nasty parts out of naked fear. It was safer to be ignorant, she reasoned, than show any promise of intelligence. Being smart was dangerous.

Perhaps she _was_ dead, and merely a poltergeist haunting the wastes as a forgotten vagabond. It made sense, Annika supposed, unlike her elusive past and the startling image that haunted her sleepless nights—it was always of a man who had quickly draped a tattered flag around her shoulders before his head exploded in a burst of bloody viscera and bits of bone, resembling an overripe watermelon.

So, then, this was perhaps now her formidable duty—to rescue those when Annika couldn't save herself from the shrouds of the deceased. She would, instead, become the compassionate harbinger of inevitable death. There was a pause of reconciliation as she finally accepted herself to the gruesome deed and laid her delicate finger on the trigger.

 _Now_ , she thought, not knowing that her opportunity had already passed with a surprising fleetness.

Graceful hands wrapped around her wrists and took the weapon from her unsure grasp. Annika frowned in confusion, and quickly opened her eyes to find herself staring at a red-and-black uniform with leather straps and crimson skirts. She glanced upwards, and gazed at a lithe young man who looked back at her quite sharply.

He was taller than her, with a kilt of woven fox pelts and wormwood sandals adorning his strange costume. A machete hung nakedly from his hip, the steel glimmering like a cleansing fire in the evening hues of the somber Mojave desert. There was a moth-eaten cloak of animal hides hanging about his long neck, the decorative hood being of a foreign creature which pooled around his shoulders with an uncomfortable grimace.

As such, his jet-black hair was exposed to the lurking twilight, and shone darkly with tinges of purple majolica. It was a dishevelled blackness that curled at the edges, reaching the tips of his ears and framing a smooth and chiselled face. Fresh stubble lined his jaw, and his aquiline nose took a proud stance with his feminine features as shining goggles obscured his expressionless gaze.

Annika found that she could only see her own terrified reflection in the twin-like spectacles, and it made her rather speechless as the man tilted his head downwards with a curious, if not somewhat intense, gesture. _Oh, hell._

"Are you a crow?" he asked, breaking the harsh silence. A cold amusement laced his silken tone as the powerful statement startled her with its enrapturing aura. "Have you come to feed off the dead, girl, like a miserable scavenger of the carrion?"

Annika glared at him, mustering up the thin tatters of her courage. "I am not a scavenger," she said scathingly, lifting her freckled chin in defiance, "And would do well not to treat me as such."

She sounded shaken, and it made her inwardly cringe with disgust as she resorted to her old-fashioned manners like an immaculate shield of propriety. Worse, she did not know where they had come from. However, the pitiable feeling slowly morphed into a fearful apprehension when she noticed the countless others standing behind the legionnaire. All of them wore similar outfits with animalistic dressings, but it was the gazes of raw hunger in their eyes that made her withdraw several footsteps, to little avail.

Annika's sudden boldness made the legionnaire regard her with renewed interest, although he seemed unsurprised at the violent outburst. He paused, taking in her scrawniness, budding chest, and adolescent face with a sweeping gaze, then peered even closer at her with a hawkish look instead, watching as her tawny skin turned bright red in a combination of naive guilt and embarrassment.

 _I should have escaped earlier when I had the chance,_ Annika thought. He still hadn't released his vice-like grip on her bruising hands and as she retreated, he quickly followed. _I have made a terrible, terrible mistake._

The legionnaire gave a small smile, as if guessing her thoughts. He appeared like a sinful demon in the darkening light, drawing them closer together until their bodies were mere inches apart. Annika could almost feel his malignant aura, and flinched from it with a tremulous scowl.

"Fear not," he said assuredly, tilting his head the slightest bit. "I won't have you strung up like the others, girl. It is useful, in fact, that you happened by at all."

"I don't doubt that you think so," Annika stuttered, craning her head upwards to look at him with an accusing stare which faltered halfway through. This man scared her beyond practical reason. "But what happened here is—is horrifying."

His lip curled into a frown. "What happened should have been accomplished long ago. Nipton was a wicked place, debased and corrupt with the moral dissolution of brutes. It served all comers who paid. Profligate troops, Powder Gangers, men of the Legion such as myself—the people here didn't care. This was a town of whores."

Annika blinked at his rambling speech. "You're a legionary," she said, confirming her fears at his subtle nod. She had known undoubtedly, of course, but for the lingering suspicions to be revoked into brutal facts was hard to accept. "I knew. I saw the flag posted near the entrance."

"And yet you still came," the legionnaire replied lightly, a knowing smile on his sharp face. She desperately wanted to slap that smug expression until it melted away into the shadows of childish nightmares where it belonged. "I applaud your ignorance. Not many brave the Bull with knowledge beforehand."

Annika looked at her feet, blushing madly. "I knew what you were."

"Stupidity, then." The legionnaire gently grasped her chin with his free hand and forced their disparate gazes to meet. "It is of no matter. I came here to make Nipton serve as an object lesson, and you shall be its courier for the world."

 _Oh, hell,_ Annika thought, feeling entrapped. "Do I have a choice?" she asked, already knowing the answer that would assuredly fall from his silken tongue.

The legionnaire paused before turning her small head to look at the pristine rows of crucified. His calloused hands gripped her quivering chin almost gently, although she could feel the supple strength behind the subtle movement. They looked over the savage achievements in tandem.

"You may join them," he said softly, nodding in their general direction, "or you can choose a personal freedom for the moment. One, of course, is merely a different replacement for another, but the shackles are easier to accept."

 _He's mocking me, the bastard,_ Annika thought angrily. "It seems that there are no good options," she retorted, fighting the primal urge to struggle and squawk like a wounded animal. His stubble tickled her nose, the obsidian hairs making her turn her head in escape, only to have their lips almost collide with the poor attempt.

"One is better for you than the other," the legionnaire conceded, quickly recovering from the close proximity as his mouth hovered over hers with a rakish grin. "Would you like to guess, girl?"

"No," Annika snapped woodenly, her pulse skyrocketing with terror and something else which she was too afraid to put a proper name to. "I'm afraid that I'll only leave you disappointed."

The legionnaire blinked, canting his head like a bird of prey. "Then I want you to witness the fate of the town of Nipton, to memorise every horrid detail." His voice became a low, seductive purr as he brushed his mouth against the shell of her ear with a sultry whisper. "And then, when you move on from this place? I want you to teach everyone you meet the lesson that Caesar's Legion taught here. Especially any NCR troops you run across."

Annika swallowed, her wild heartbeat stuttering erratically as an unknown feeling froze her limbs in place. She felt her knees lock together as careful hands slid a foreign object into one of the many pockets that adorned her ill-fitting leather armour. "And what lesson is that?" she asked hoarsely, her eyelashes fluttering with each shuddering breath.

The legionnaire gave a deep chuckle that rumbled in his throat. "I think that should be fairly obvious, girl." He stopped, flashing a manic grin that stretched to the far corners of his otherwise pursed mouth. "You know, you resemble a songbird in the sunset."

His observation made her stomach drop like a stone. Annika suddenly felt wan, and fought the urge to shudder as chills crawled down her spine with invading fingers. The legionary watched, charging the tense atmosphere into something resembling the madness of uncertainty.

"What did you give me," Annika hissed, biting her cheek until blood began to pool in her mouth. She knew that the danger presented before her was increasing herself tenfold at each passing second, but couldn't help the words spilling from her.

The legionary grinned. "A parting gift," he said, finally removing himself and stepping backwards. "You'll just have to see for yourself. But take my word for it—never gamble with the Legion."

"I'll do as you ask," Annika blurted out. She felt dizzy and light-headed with the impossible sense of an unharmed escape. She could practically taste it on her tongue. "I'll do whatever you want."

The legionnaire smiled coldly. "I know." He turned to walk towards the shifting throngs of his men—for they could be little else as he held the sharp stature of a commanding officer—and glided into the shadows with a cat-like, predatory step.

"Who are you?" Annika could feel the hard object jabbing into her hipbone, but knew better than to move.

The legionnaire paused, watching her briefly from the shadows with a curious look. "I am Vulpes Inculta, the greatest of Caesar's current Frumentarii."

Then he was gone, disappearing in the murky twilight as if he were nothing of natural matter. Annika wasn't so sure that he was. She collapsed to her knees in a mangled heap, any adrenaline left waning as she shakily drew out the object. It pressed against her sweaty palm, revealing itself to be a dull coin with a faded inscription of a prancing bull.

 _Shit, shit_ , Annika thought, turning her gaze up the sky, unknowing of its importance or possible meaning.

It was hours later before she rose and left, refusing to look back. The strangest feeling nagged her the entire journey back, like she was constantly being doused with buckets of ice-cold water; it was that she had not seen the last of Vulpes—although she fervently prayed the exact opposite to anything that listened.

She wouldn't know how right she was until it was too late.


	9. Chapter 8

_**A/N:** To the guest user: Thank you for the constructive criticism, as I greatly enjoyed reading your advice. I would have private messaged you, but alas. When I wrote this I was obsessed with Dickens and Tolstoy, so it doesn't come as a surprise that I've unintentionally emulated them in being wordy. I will try my best to cut back anything that isn't necessary, but I unfortunately don't have a lot of time on my hands, and I won't be able to catch every slip. That being said, thanks again for leaving a review, and don't hesitate to speak up if there's anything else on your mind. :)_

* * *

What shocked her most of all was the complete and utter stillness. It felt stifling, to say the least, the dark atmosphere muffling everything into a hot, ill-tempered silence. It choked the local fauna in a sweaty stranglehold of agitation, deadening any sounds or movements.

There were no lively bonfires crackling away, their prancing tongues of flame wavering back and forth like bellydancers. There weren't any children laughing, or musical instruments being merrily played off-key. Everything was silent, and there were no glimpses to be found of the brown-skinned natives.

It was sickening to watch the total lifelessness of such a desolate scene.

The wind roved harshly through the leaves of the grey-green sentinels, beeches, and sappy sycamores, rattling all their gloomy foliage into a sullen applause. Any leftover scraps of the breeze echoed themselves off the canyons and thin clouds in funnels of whistling noise, sounding not unlike a wounded animal—turning the tumultuous skies into an accompanying orchestra of raw anguish.

Annika walked faster, clutching her side in a soft whimper of pain. She kept tripping over the shallow indentations of dusty hoof-prints that were scattered here and there, worsening her distress and guilt to untold heights. It ate away at her diminished tolerance as a sense of dread seeped into her stiff limbs like molten lead.

Joshua stood still, unmovable as if in a trance. His white figure cut a bold figure against the vanishing rays of the copper sun, burnishing him with the drab flames of an over-washed sunset.

She collapsed to her shaking, bloody knees. "Joshua?"

It was the first time that she had said his name aloud to him. It sounded strangely intimate and softly beckoning—which were both highly inappropriate in the current situation. His fingers twitched a little, but he otherwise remained silent.

Annika's voice was a faint murmur, drifting from her tongue without permission as she broke the blistering silence in a fit of guilt. She sat only ten feet away, but the space between them already felt like hundreds of miles. "Please talk to me. Please."

She hated it. The responsibility for the carnage around them was a weighty mantle, constricting her in a bruising snake-hold of shame. It made her begin to loathe the very existence of Zion for forcing her to feel the heaviness of her atrocities that she had unknowingly committed.

She would have wept had any tears came to her wide, scared expression.

Joshua turned—each passionless quiver of his movements was precise, calculated to the most minute detail. Two blue eyes peered out from beneath the shock of his dishevelled bandages and tufts of half-singed hair, staring at Annika with an expected weariness that was almost an accompaniment to his stoically carved features.

"The Dead Horses have been evacuated from Zion." His voice was quiet and full of reproach, straining in the darkness to be heard.

She bowed her head submissively, a silent plea on her lips. "All of them?"

"Only the warriors remain."

Annika wrung her hands together, just like she did earlier, the rawness of his barbed words striking her into a turbulent state of distress. "I'm sorry."

Joshua moved towards her, slowly, his frosty eyes veiling themselves over like a cobra readying itself to strike. He was cold and calculating and unfeeling. "I don't believe that you are."

"I know what you think of me," Annika whispered harshly, not daring to raise her head as the tops of his black boots came into the very edges of her vision. They stopped just millimetres away from her, digging up against the gravel and scorched earth as the dull surface of them reflected the half-hidden expanse of milky stars soaring above.

"Interesting," Joshua coldly replied, crouching down before her. He loosely draped his bandaged hands between the triangular space of his parted legs. "And what, exactly, do I think of you?"

There were a million unsaid things in those jabbing words. As it stood, it took everything Annika had not to scream with frustration. His sudden closeness was disconcerting, quickly sending any coherent thoughts flying from her head, and making her hyperaware of each subtle movement.

"I don't know." Annika breathed shakily, her nostrils flaring until she was quite red in the face—though whether it was from anger or sadness, neither could rightly say—for, apart from that slip, she remained alarmingly dispassionate and blank. "But I've been a real terrible beast."

Joshua leaned forwards. "Do you have any possible idea what you've done?"

"Yes." She tilted her small chin up, meeting his steely gaze with a withering look of self-hate and disgust. Her curls parted smoothly around her face like the Red Sea, flashing their matted strands in waves of brownish-gold. "Yes, more than anyone. I've been a proper jackass. But I was only trying to do the right thing. I didn't think that—that _this_ would happen."

Joshua frowned. "Regardless, it makes you a very foolish girl." It was a snide, hurtful remark, with none of that stern gentleness accustomed to his reformed nature.

"I was trying to do the right thing," Annika quietly repeated, her eyelashes rapidly fluttering with the valiant effort to stem the tears that threatened to pour down her cheeks. "I mean, did anyone get hurt—do . . . do you know where Follows—oh, I only had good intentions."

"That is why it has done the most damage," Joshua softly rasped, reaching out to touch her arm. It was supposed to be a quick, passionless gesture, but ended up mimicking something much gentler instead, making them both inwardly hesitate for very different reasons. "Most of the Bighorners have fled in a massive stampede—which means we will have to hunt further from the territories, if we aren't forced to move the whole camp altogether. Not to mention the White Legs—those savages will undoubtedly try to force an advantage from this foolish mishap."

Annika looked dainty just then, like an ill-begotten word could snap her in half. She was at once pale and stricken with grief, and had flinched when Joshua raised a hand up, as if she expected to be violently backhanded across the face.

Surprise bled into the contours of his eyes as he paused. "I'm not going to hurt you," Joshua said quietly, his voice torn with a nervous sort of undefinable emotion. "I only wish that you had listened."

"I'm not entirely sure I believe that."

Joshua frowned, his expression darkening considerably. He still hadn't removed his hand from her flushed skin. "You don't have to. Your lack of faith is no more important than the substantiality of mine."

On the outside, Annika was remarkably composed after a few breathless moments of indecision. But where her soul quietly resided, the fragments of her self-possession were slowly starting to crumble in a distasteful spiral of lunacy and possible psychosis. It was an inevitable—and regrettable—side effect of living out in the wastelands, starting as a gradual process that would quickly run downhill in the grand finality of death. Unfortunately, it was too subtle to detect in its infancy, and neither noticed her flashing, almost feral expression that instantly dissipated.

Joshua moved closer, if that was possible. "I want you to tell me something," he said, withdrawing a small circular object from his pockets. It looked like a metallic coin of little value. "Why do you have this?"

A confused, darting look was on her tawny face as Annika visibly stiffened. "What do you mean?" she asked, twitching like a deer meeting its final moments. A half-strangled laugh became stuck in her throat, choking the words that escaped her lips. "I don't know what you mean."

Joshua gripped her arm in a firm, almost bruising grip, a grim look on his face. "Don't play stupid, Annika, it doesn't suit you at all."

She felt unjustly aware of her unromantic state of disarray as she swiped at her hair with sweaty, trembling fingertips. "So—so explain it to me."

He made a quick, senseless noise of exasperation before complying with drops of ice-blue fire in his eyes. "This coin is a _denarius_ , one of the highest items of value in the Legion's currency—which means that the regular rank-and-file couldn't afford to carry these around lightly in their pockets. Only the higher-ranking officers did so to flaunt their wealth and prosperity. Since neither Legate Lanius nor Caesar himself never had much reason for the trifling affairs of money—as they could have taken whatever they liked with brute authority and force—it means that it was accorded to you as a gift by someone else."

The frightened look which unconsciously passed on Annika's face startled him with its potent complexity. It was something full of an indescribable darkness that only a harrowing of memories could give. Before long, though, her mannequin-like posture melted into something more forcibly relaxed as a hesitant expression melted onto her striking face.

But there was no room for forgiveness in his stony heart. "Tell me how you got it."

She blinked rapidly. "Maybe I looted it off some corpse as a grisly souvenir."

"No, Annika, I hardly think you the murdering type."

She glanced away, defeated. "Perhaps you hardly know me at all."

The sudden, traitorous uprising in her stomach, and the turmoil in her bright eyes showed such a depth of clarity for the emotions which Joshua subconsciously longed, and yet also feared for, that he was left speechless with some unnameable conflict that stirred the inside of his troubled soul.

"Who gave this to you?" Joshua rasped, poorly masking the reflection of his inner desires that still remained largely unknown to him—as it is to all obstinate fools that gladly suffer under the beginning attachments of a hapless affection.

"Vulpes Inculta." Her eyes grew wide at that, as if she had just shocked herself by admitting the truth aloud to him—her rolling pupils resembled the white saucers in a forgotten fairytale. "It was him," Annika gasped, "he did it."

"And is he dead?" Joshua asked, his harsh, raspy tone of voice making it sound like he was asking himself instead.

Annika stared at her feet, fighting back the urge to hyperventilate or run off at the slightest expression of hostility. "I saw him die with my own two eyes."

Unfortunately, The Burned Man couldn't tell if she spoke the truth.

She wrapped lanky arms around herself, her vivid eyes reeling with a painful openness. "May—may I see Follows-Chalk?"

Joshua stood upright with a half-strangled expression, as if he couldn't make up his mind about what he was feeling. Stiffly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. "Yes."

He didn't wait around for her, and he promptly marched off without seeing if she followed. He seemed to be in a terrible state of excitement, for his movements were jerky and erratic throughout the entire time that he guided her to Follows-Chalk, like he was mimicking a puppet on half-drawn strings. He also kept a tense silence that choked the last of his remaining composure, confusing Annika until she felt at a loss by his cruel behaviour.

They made it to their destination in what seemed a record amount of time. Follows-Chalk was inside the caverns behind an alcove of leather hangings, stubby stalagmites, and glowing mushrooms. He was laid out on a flat strip of bark that was propped up by two prongs of wood on each end; the thorny limbs proudly stood upright, acting as makeshift pillars of support.

It was an ingenious piece of machinery that had been crafted in an emergency, padded with moss and crude strips of hide. The end result made it seem like a natural sort of stretcher, but it was more portable and easier to demolish at a moment's notice. It wasn't the only one made, for several others fanned out around them in a loose framework of the injured and sickly. But Annika refused to look at them, focusing her attention on Follows-Chalk instead.

He looked to be sleeping, his screwed eyelids firmly shut, and his breathing languid and slow. The youthful lines of his features had sunken into a shallow restiveness, sharpening his cheekbones until he looked gaunt like a corpse. The flickering torchlight made his expression seem stony and oddly disapproving in the semidarkness—and even though his skin was normally brown and calloused, it had suddenly taken an unhealthy sheen to it, looking waxy and frail instead.

Annika felt sick just looking at him. "How is he?" she asked feverishly, daring to touch Follows-Chalk's forehead with the back of a clammy hand.

"He'll make a full recovery," Joshua replied, dodging the platinum swathes of her frizzy hair. He didn't dare to touch her, but he shepherded her away nonetheless, nervous at how the remaining natives would react to her presence. "In the meantime, I'll be sending you off on an errand with Waking-Cloud, one of the members of the Sorrows—that is once your wounds are re-treated."

"Wait—what's happening?" Annika demanded, turning her disorganized and blushing gaze upon Joshua. She hadn't even noticed that they had moved until they'd already arrived to the entrance of his bedchambers. The extent of her worry and gnawing guilt had made her unobservant, addling her thoughts into a jumbled mess.

His hand hovered above her shoulder before awkwardly darting away. "I'm sending you away with Waking-Cloud, one of the midwives from the Sorrows." If repeating himself annoyed him, he didn't show it in the slightest. His face was an implacable mask of steel.

"Oh." She stared at him anxiously, her doe-eyes betraying a riotous expression of dismay and relief. "I see."

It seemed as if Joshua had finally repossessed himself, for he appeared remarkably unflustered by her blatant disappointment. But nevertheless, he watched her with an uncertain mixture of hesitance. "It is only for a little while."

"And does—does this Waking-Cloud know about it?" Annika asked, staring at the ground with a resigned look.

"By now, yes." Joshua looked as if he were speaking with great difficulty. "Daniel and I had already talked about it beforehand, when he visited. We . . . we both require your aid."

Annika bit the insides of her cheeks until she tasted blood, inhaling sharply. "Surely you don't _want_ my help, right?"

Joshua sighed. "A storm is coming, whether Daniel refuses to admit it or not. There are some items here in Zion that would prove useful to our own cause. They're located in old, pre-war buildings that are dotted around the canyons, but the natives won't go near them out of superstition and fear. They mark the places with handprints, and consider them haunted by bad spirits."

"So this is where I come in," Annika said, crossing arms over her chest as she stared at the ground. "You need me to do it."

Joshua awkwardly stuffed his linen-wrapped hands in his pockets for the lack of something else to do. "Yes."

Annika shyly glanced at him, regaining her curiosity. "And where does this Waking-Cloud figure into everything?"

Joshua smiled thinly. "She is not as easily confused like her brethren, and will accompany you along the way." He paused, his patchy eyebrows knitting themselves into deep furrows across his face. "Daniel has asked her to collect herbs for the Sorrows, as they are starting to run low on supplies. She'll act as a useful guide while you fetch the items we need."

"Why send me away now?" Annika asked, her voice low and hoarse. "Why not have me stay and help with . . . _this_?" She motioned around them with the wave of a hand.

Joshua returned her look with a sharp one of his own. "Many of the Dead Horses blame you for the destruction, as they rightly should. Sending you away for a temporary amount of time will give them the chance to cool off and forgive you."

Annika hunched her shoulders, her posture wilting as she glanced off to the side in defeat. She opened her mouth to speak, then quickly snapped it shut and said nothing instead. Her eyes were like mossy glaciers, their depths frigid but repentant.

"Consider this as a sort of penance," Joshua offered, his mouth twitching at her lack of a response. "The natives will surely have come around by the time you return. They are inclined to be a rather clement people."

Annika briefly closed her eyes, opening them to sharing a heated glance as she slowly nodded. "Alright. What would I be looking for?"

Joshua gestured to her, then walked into his quarters. She stayed close at his heels, watching as he withdrew a battered-looking crated filled with a plethora of medical supplies. "We need to redress your wounds first before you do anything. It seems like you've already torn your stitches."

She glanced down, a startled laugh bursting from her. It sounded shrill and crow-like. "I didn't even notice."

Joshua glanced up, giving her a withering look as he dug out some clean linens, a pot of green salve, and a couple of Stimpacks. "This terrible habit of yours needs to stop. You're burning a hole through my provisions."

A touch of a wry smile lingered around the corners of her mouth. "Then I guess it's a deal."

"Excuse me?" Joshua stopped, staring at her. "I don't remembering making a deal of any kind, let alone talking about one."

Annika tapped a finger to the side of her head, rolling her eyes at the bizarre look that he gave her. "You didn't have to—your facial expressions say it all. I can read what people think pretty easily."

He dangled his hands over the lip of the wooden crate, his face remarkably composed. "That's an impressive skill to have."

She nodded in agreement. "I think so."

The muscles of his cheek contracted and twitched on the right side of his face, as if giving way to something severe in nature. "You still haven't told me what this so-called deal consists of."

He hadn't forgiven her completely, and he made it clear by his lukewarm response and stiff movements. But he was also painfully conscious of the fact that it was impossible for him to treat Annika in a contemptuous and detached manner. She was far too innocent and pure to regard coldly. It left him in a confused state of irritation that he hid behind a distracted reluctance.

Annika went over to him, unconscious of his troubles as she gave a penitent smile, her fine eyes regaining their lustre in quick little flashes. "The deal is that I won't cause nearly as much trouble, and I'll try to make amends with everything."

Joshua looked down at her. "And what do you want in return?"

Annika craned her head back, meeting his gaze firmly, defiantly. "Anything I want."

A strangled laugh fell from his mouth. "No. Now let me change your bandages."

She smiled again, almost imperceptibly. "I had to try." She began to strip off her leather armour without hesitation, assisted by Joshua until she stood only in the white blouse and leggings that she wore beneath. She sat down on an overhang, shooting him a strange look as he carefully lifted up the blood-stained shirt and cleaned her wounds with an expert precision.

"You're pretty handy with being a medic," Annika observed, breaking the silence. She suddenly stifled a moan of pain as he roughly prodded one of the cuts. "No—I take it all back. I want to see your degree."

"You wound me," Joshua quipped, his periwinkle eyes daring her to complain further. He paused, as if he had just surprised himself by suddenly being so cordial. It made him frown and shake his head, his face recovering a flinty expression of little remorse.

She scowled, "Did you just make a joke at my expense? Ow—stop that!"

"Stop fussing," Joshua snapped, batting her hands away as he took out a sterilized needle. The strange slip in his behavior made him cruel again, as he was unable to understand what had happened, and therefore he felt himself incapable of responding appropriately. "You're making things worse."

"I'm not the one pussyfootin' around," Annika mumbled, gritting her teeth as her stitches were redone for the third time. She felt almost offended when he didn't stop to offer her any narcotics to help with the pain. "Why are you so stupidly methodical?"

Joshua glared at her. "That's enough, young lady. Don't keep up that attitude, or else I'll have to take you over my knee and teach you a lesson in manners."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm sure you'd enjoy spanking me," Annika retorted snappishly. The pain and lack of anesthetic had made her bold and volatile, sharpening her tongue into a razor-sharp point of thinly-veiled sarcasm. A sudden warmth suffused her face when she spoke those words, and a tense, awkward silence quickly settled between them. Her eyes suddenly widened into moonlike saucers of surprise, and she gave an unearthly squawk, clapping hands over her mouth and blushing madly.

Joshua looked completely and utterly shocked. His calm facade had all but disintegrated, and a wild, half-choked noise came from the back of his throat. He stepped away, his fingers twitching again.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it," Annika said, embarrassed and scandalised by her behaviour. She reached out for him, then quickly stopped herself. "I honestly didn't. I'm sure you really don't enjoy spanking—unless it's a punishment—wait, no . . . not like that." She pressed her lips into a firm line, her courage wavering as she hung her head, quickly averting her eyes with a mortified look on her face.

Joshua shook his head. "You are the most bizarre creature that I have ever had the misfortune of meeting." His voice sounded raw as he hastily retreated, taking the soiled bandages and remaining supplies with him. It was an unspoken miracle that he had already finished stitching her wounds back together, for he seemed unwilling to touch her even with a ten-foot pole.

Annika still refused to look at him, nodding and angrily biting her cheek like an idiot. Furious, she gathered up what was left of her armour, mentally berating herself for acting so foolishly as she retreated to the opposite side of the cavern with limping footsteps.

She felt reluctant to go outside, as her safety wasn't completely guaranteed. As a result, she was trapped inside with Joshua, who refused to acknowledge her presence like a pig-headed mule—for even when she tripped by accident and fell face-first, bloodying her nose, he barely sent a glance in her direction.

Annika rubbed her nose with the back of a grimy hand, scowling. She picked herself up, turning smartly around with a haughty, if not distressed, flounce in her step, and promptly sat down near the door with bruised fingers and pride.

She ferociously began to dismantle her armour for cleaning, pursing her lips into a silent snarl as her face blushed a bright crimson from a feminine anger. She somehow felt slighted despite everything that had happened—and, being ashamed of this feeling, she took out her emotions on the armour.

Joshua watched her from afar, quickly glancing away as his fingers fumbled with the clasps of his vest, searching for the Bible that was tucked inside. He looked oddly insulted, a confused look dancing in his eyes as he desperately sought guidance in the book's thin pages. But it brought him no comfort, and all the while he was painfully conscious of Annika.

She was angrily scrubbing her leather armour into oblivion, jerking her arms back and forth like a 1950's midwife washing her linens. She polished it with red and swollen hands, using the hem of her shirt as a makeshift rag as she bitterly muttered under her breath. It was painful to watch, but Joshua refused to intervene.

They both somehow knew that it was going to be a long, long night.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Just as a heads-up, I will more than likely be upping the rating to M in a few chapters, mostly for gore/violence, language, and disturbing content._


	10. Chapter 9

_**A/N:**_ _So I just realized that I had been calling Waking-Cloud Talking-Cloud instead. Y'ALL. Anyways, I had some time to spare, so I went back and cleaned up all the chapters, fixing mistakes and clearing things up. Now it doesn't completely seem like Dickens wrote this while having a seizure lol._

 _Also, to **Nat** : Thank you very much for you review! I hope you enjoy this chapter :)_

* * *

When morning came the sky was a steel grey, tinged at the horizon by fading streaks of lavender. The trees brushed their branches of leafy foliage against the thin wisps of transparent clouds that soared above, and the sun rose white-hot and brilliant. The air tasted warm, fresh and earthy, and steam rose up from the bubbling streams like a misty fog. The pre-dawn dew stubbornly clung to the fields of grass in sparkling droplets, so that everything around Annika looked fresh when she stepped outside.

It was one of those autumnal days where everything was still pleasant—for the first frost had not yet come. The tree-tops were just beginning the clothe themselves in riotous colours of orange and flaky yellow, and the wildflowers were bent over and swollen with beady goblets of sticky sap.

Joshua easily overtook her, quiet and taciturn like a wrathful shadow. He was guiding her to a known rendezvous and dead-drop of the Sorrows, where Waking-Cloud would surely stop at for supplies. Everything had already been pre-arranged except for the precise day of meeting up—which was easily determined by Joshua himself, as the female native was notorious for her strict schedules.

Annika nervously stared at his broad back, following his footsteps with quivering lips and darting honey-brown eyes. The half-thawed ground and mossy carpet of grass crunched merrily beneath their feet as she folded her hands together, watching a leaf pirouette downwards in a pensive silence. It flashed in the sunlight like a dazzling emerald, mirroring her thoughts that were still fresh and young, but which got swept away all the same.

They didn't have to wait long for Waking-Cloud. The rendezvous was cleverly camouflaged behind a thick, dull-coloured bramble of yellow bushes, half-hidden by a mossy overhang and the red-and-white canyon walls that backed it. The entrance was marked with a single white handprint, expertly concealed amidst the flowering vegetation so that Annika almost missed the painted-on symbol as she walked by.

Indeed, she nearly stumbled right into Joshua, who had suddenly come to an abrupt halt. She quickly backpedaled like a pre-war bulldozer, looking everywhere but at him and shoving her hands deep into the waistline of the patchwork trousers that she had salvaged, as her leggings were being washed—again.

Joshua sent her a quick, disapproving glance over his shoulder that seemed to say, _Do you enjoy testing my patience?_

Annika shot him an apologetic look, a faint blush staining her cheeks as her mouth automatically pulled into a frown. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

She didn't quite catch the flash of amusement that lay buried in his steel-grey eyes. Joshua turned away, hiding the little quirk that made his mouth twitch upwards. "You're forgiven."

He gently yanked aside the leafy tarpaulin that concealed the entrance before moving inside, taking out his bible and a slim paper-knife from one of the front pockets of his bulletproof vest. He sat down on a rolled-up bedroll with an ankle crossed over his knee, giving Annika an expectant look as she entered, following behind him.

Just then, something unspoken passed between them as they unintentionally stared at each other in a contemplative silence. It felt like minutes, hours—but was likely only seconds as their eyes met in a tentative dance of clumsiness. Their gazes stopped, and held.

Joshua had already forgiven her in his heart, although he was still unconscious of it. For a swift, fleeting moment he couldn't see any of her superficial flaws—like the slight gap in her pearly-white front teeth, or how she sometimes got twitchy like an overwound clock—and he became momentarily entranced by her juvenile charms.

It had been too long since he'd last held a woman in his arms.

Annika watched Joshua as he rapidly blinked and looked elsewhere, quietly marvelling to herself. _He's acting really . . . odd today. More so than usual._

She settled herself on the ground in front of him, tucking her legs beneath her as her hair charmingly arranged itself around her slim shoulders in a fluffy afro of curls. It was an oddly domestic scene. Annika couldn't help but reach out and touch him, her hand resting lightly on his knee. He tensed up, yet he didn't otherwise move away. Instead, he glanced at her over the lip of his book with a curiously blank, unreadable expression.

She suddenly felt alarmingly conscious of how close Joshua was sitting next to her, and a strange feeling aroused itself when she touched him again—it was a feeling of overwhelming tenderness that made her eyes shine brightly with a dormant affection.

Slowly, as if in a dream, Annika vaguely felt Joshua's free hand travel down to hers. Their fingers gently brushed against each other, creating soft, pleasant jolts of electricity that ran down her spine, moving from the nape of her neck to the small of her back in an erratic waterfall of instantaneous warmth.

The foreign sensation made her lips part open, and gave her a radiant expression that subconsciously commandeered itself onto her glowing, fawn-like face. She looked absolutely bewildered by it, the bizarre feelings striking her immobile as she scrunched up her nose. Annika sent him a shy glance in response, her young eyes burning with something fiery and unmentionable.

Joshua felt these very selfsame passions stirring in his chest. It was liberating, coolly refreshing, and yet incredibly terrifying all at the same time. He quickly snatched back his hand, as if he'd just been violently scorched by the flames of a relentless fire.

He turned aside, painfully twisting his body away from her as he shuffled his booted feet in a desperate bid to look anywhere but at Annika. His thoughts were suddenly overwhelming, unspeakable, and completely involuntary, festering like open wounds whenever he caught sight of her.

Hurt coloured Annika's face even though she was completely unaware of it—for, when he had withdrawn his hand, there was an indescribable pang that struck against her heart. She seemed strangely off-balance, biting her lip with a sudden rawness that can be felt in the aftermath of a traumatising shock. She stared hotly down at her feet, fighting back a rush of tears as her face grew flushed and embarrassingly warm.

It was like divine intervention that Waking-Cloud unexpectedly showed up before things could escalate, pulling the entrance out of the way and stepping inside the hollowed-out rendezvous. She looked unsurprised to see them sitting together, and how they jumped apart like guilty children.

"You!" Annika exclaimed, standing upright and blushing from what had just transpired. "You—you must be Waking-Cloud."

"And you are the outlander, called Annika," Waking-Cloud replied, clucking her tongue and repressing a soft, motherly smile as she spoke. "Daniel told me to expect you. He did not say when we were to meet, but I knew that it would be soon." Her dark eyes landed on Joshua, and her face grew subtly grim. "A war is coming—and we must be prepared for its outcome."

"I . . . see."

Joshua suddenly stood up, brushing past them with an expressionless look on his face. His movements were all jerky and . . . off. "I should really be on my way," he all but snapped, his scarred, half-mutilated eyes burning as if they were twin balls of bright blue flame.

Annika refused to look at him, angrily gnawing her lip until she tasted little drops of blood pooling in her mouth. She crossed her arms, scowling fiercely and defiantly tossing her curls back like an untamed horse as she thrusted out her chin. "That's just fine by me."

He stopped at the entrance when he was halfway over the threshold, half of his body thrown into the blinding sunlight, while the other half remained inside, bathed in the grey recesses of two-dimensional shadows. It looked like he couldn't make up his mind about something, as he seemed oddly hesitant to leave, clinging to the craggy entrance with white-knuckled fingers.

He glanced at Waking-Cloud, then began rapidly speaking to her for a few minutes in the native language. All the while he steadfastly ignored Annika's presence, as if the substance of her very existence was both vile and indecorous to his fine-tuned senses.

It seemed prudent to hold her tongue, but Annika glared hotly at him all the same until he left, sharply conveying what her stumbling words could not. But when Joshua did finally depart, she keenly felt his absence like a sharp knife—and it confused her. The colour drained from her face as she stood there petulantly, biting her tongue in a woolly silence.

A thick quiet settled between Annika and Waking-Cloud, where each of them appraised the other's appearance with a morbid curiosity and quick, glittering eyes. There was tension in the air, but it wasn't hostile—merely probing, inquisitive.

Walking-Cloud looked to be middle-aged, slender but shapely, with downturned lips and fine, expressive eyes that shone. One side of her head was clean-shaven and bare, while the other was styled with a lazy mohawk of black ringlets that reached the tip of her left ear. It was a strange look, but it fit her solemn expression nonetheless as she stood there solemnly.

Annika crossed her arms, glancing down at her own bedraggled figure. She'd eagerly raided some of the pre-war wooden crates which Joshua had mutely let her sort through earlier that morning, hoping to stave off her growing boredom.

Well, he hadn't said that she _could_ look through them, precisely, but he certainly hadn't stopped her, either.

She took that as a sign that their strained relationship was progressing rather well.

The gaudy clothes and costume jewelry Annika found had amused her for a while as she played dress-up in a cracked, double-leaded mirror. She'd cleverly reasoned to herself that the frills of lace and swathes of fake pleather would make it easier to slip past the natives without incurring their wrath—and, miraculously, it had worked like a charm.

They were too busy laughing their asses off to realise that it _was_ her, and Annika had made off while the going was still good.

And so she was gaily dressed in the blatantly hideous attire of a naval officer that had gone blind and lacked any proper taste for fashion, with an adorning coat, loose brown patchwork trousers, and a felt-tipped hat that hung on her back by thin leather straps which were looped over her chest. She still wore the same shirt.

 _Back to the present,_ Annika thought, uncrossing her arms and hopping from one foot to the other. "You are Waking-Cloud, yeah?"

A look of amusement lay buried in Waking-Cloud's eyes. "Come," she said, clicking her teeth and moving outside.

Annika followed her outdoors, rolling up the frayed sleeves of her coat with an inaudible sigh of contentment. She raised a hand against the dazzling yellow sunshine, squinting her eyes together and fighting back a smile as she felt the snappy wind breezily caress her cheeks.

"You will drown in all those layers," Waking-Cloud said pointedly, raising her eyebrows as she fetched a polished walking-stick and knapsack from a small, well-hidden alcove. "It is not even midday, and yet you are already sweating like a Yao Guai in heat."

"It's a disguise," Annika replied defensively, wiping away the beads of perspiration that dotted her smooth, over-warm forehead. "Well, it _was_. I thought it was a brilliant plan. And it worked absolutely splendid, too."

"Regardless, you should strip down," Waking-Cloud recommended, listening to her jabber with a blithely patient smile. "I doubt that the local wildlife will be fooled by your camouflage. You can leave your things here, and we'll retrieve them later."

"Do you know where to go?" Annika asked, reluctantly taking the native's advice and peeling off most of her weighty clothing.

Waking-Cloud nodded. "Joshua said you have a map. He, ah—debriefed me, yes?"

Annika wondered how _much_ exactly he'd debriefed her on. But she simply smiled instead, pulling the felt-tipped hat over her head by its strings and ignoring the fretting bitterness that stuck in her throat. "Yeah. That's what you'd say."

Waking-Cloud looked relieved. "Slather mud on your arms," she insisted, smiling back at her and turning aside. "It will keep away the bloodbugs."

"Bloodbugs?" Annika queried in a panicky voice, watching with wide eyes as Waking-Cloud's mysterious grin broadened even further. "What the hell are bloodbugs?"

* * *

Bloodbugs were, in fact, the Devil's spawn. That was what Annika had promptly decided to call them as she'd managed to down a whole buzzing swarm. They were spindly, pulsating, reddish-pink bugs with spiderish legs and terrifying tube-like mouthparts that stretched open or snapped shut, latching onto anything that they could grab. And when there were multiple flying together, they'd merge into a thick, bloodsucking cloud that hummed and droned and flitted like gypsies.

Annika had stood there idiotically, her mouth half-open in terror as she watched them buzz closer and closer in a pulsating hive of translucent wings and soulless black eyes. Her own moon-shaped eyes had been instantly glued to the bloodbugs in a magnetic trance, and she loitered there almost casually, paralyzed like a halfwit, as if she was just offhandedly waiting for them to kill her.

Waking-Cloud had snapped her out of it, though, grinning madly like a loon and mowing down the bloodbugs with a shiny double-barreled shotgun. "Look at my boomstick!"

"You're crazy!" Annika shouted back, a comical look of shock vividly painted on her face as she dove forwards into a rolling crouch and hit the insects with a wildly thrown Molotov cocktail.

The resounding explosion knocked them off their feet, clouding the unpolluted air with a thick, sweet-tasting smoke that covered everything in a light blue haze. The stench of kerosene made Annika wrinkle her nose in disgust as she scrambled upright with a distorted frown.

The bugs laid on top of each other in a wet, pulpy mess of mangled corpses—or what was left of them. Their twitching remains were carelessly strewn across a small crater of scorched earth and dewy clumps of sod, glistening like revolting, shattered Christmas ornaments that stank of diesel.

Annika began to frantically scrub at the film of bug innards that viscously coated her from head-to-toe in a thick, glossy sheen, making her skin look disgustingly waxy. A bunch of half-hearted retching sounds left her mouth as she shuddered violently, again and again, stumbling around in a disoriented haze of helplessness.

Waking-Cloud popped her head out of nowhere. "I see that Joshua has let you use his explosives."

Annika screamed. "Don't _do_ that!" she cried, clutching her chest. "You almost gave me a seizure!"

"My apologies," Waking-Cloud replied, not seeming apologetic at all. "But we should keep moving. Our first destination is up ahead."

"Please tell me that we won't see any more of those . . . things," Annika said, a paranoid look on her face as she gestured to the dead bloodbugs with frantic movements.

She hated them more than Cazadors—because _they_ , at least, weren't trying to suck you dry like a nightmarish vampire from a double-feature horror flick.

Waking-Cloud gave a half-amused smile, her eyes glittering. "The bloodbugs like it here. They usually stick to the streams and lakes, though. I think the humidity attracts them."

Annika wanted to weep at that, groaning and covering her face with a soot-stained hand. She felt inconsolably filthy, and wanted nothing more than to take a long, hot bath to wash off the cruddy unmentionables that stalwartly clung to her with a benign insistence.

"Well, I'm going to fervently pray to God Almighty, or—or to _anything_ that listens that those goddamn bloodbugs never meet Cazadors and decide to have one huge breeding orgy," Annika declared, snatching up her backpack and marching determinedly behind Waking-Cloud.

They were walking on the cracked asphalt of a ruined road that wound out before them in a lazy, twisting spiral of yellow dotted lines and grayish-black potholes. It was a dilapidated freeway of innumerable pitfalls and overgrown vegetation that was just waiting to snag at your heels and make you trip and skin your knees if you didn't pay any attention.

Which is precisely what Annika did.

"We do not have Cazadors here," Waking-Cloud said, stopping patiently and waiting for Annika to get her bearings before setting off again, an amused, sardonic smile on her plump lips as she strode purposefully onwards in a quick, graceful, rhythm. She seemed almost to float above the ground, her feet barely touching it before she rolled them forwards in a marching stroll.

"Thank goodness for small mercies," Annika grumbled, dusting off her legs as they rounded a corner without looking up.

"Joshua has spoken of them a few times, though," Waking-Cloud said, making conversation with an unsatisfied expression of curiosity on her dour face. "He says they are mean and nasty, and that they have stingers that can paralyse you."

"Eh, I prefer them over bloodbugs," Annika retorted stoutly, shouldering her backpack higher.

Their first destination was a blackened, oily shell of a pre-war minibus that had fallen inside a deep ravine. Tall honey mesquites and shady sycamores loomed above the wreckage, shading it from the bright golden rays of sunshine. Their full, veiny leaves rustled in the breeze, and off in the distance a waterfall roared, its sound muted and dull.

Waking-Cloud slung her weapon back onto its holster and scrambled downwards, deftly hopping from one rockslide to another, balancing on the balls of her feet as she leapt across a dried-up streambed with an elegant, but untamed grace.

Annika following in a clumsy, flashing whirl of colour. The gravity was much stronger than she thought, as she abruptly lost her footing and skidded against a tumbling avalanche of rubble and uprooted pebbles. She slid to the very bottom of the ravine in a streaking blur, waving her arms about and yelping like a whipped dog.

Waking-Cloud held out her arms to steady her with a surprised look. Annika practically toppled into her, sweeping them both clean off their feet as she violently rocketed into the many feathery layers of the native's ornate headdress which stood stiffly to attention.

Annika disentangled herself from the pile of limbs and casually dusted off the embroidered sleeves of her shirt, spitting out feathers and downy fluff with a severely disgusted look of annoyance on her face.

Waking-Cloud raked a sweaty hand through her midnight-black hair, a seemingly unperturbed smile on her lips, as if there wasn't a care in the world. "You are certainly very . . . rambunctious."

"My daddy always used to say that I was a bull in a fine-china shop," Annika replied.

Waking-Cloud nodded sagely. "Don't give a bull free reign and act shocked when it razes everything to the ground."

"I—alright." Annika stopped, puzzled. "Are . . . is that a compliment, or are you calling me unhinged?"

Waking-Cloud flashed her a mischievous smile as she walked by with a brisk, purposeful tread. "I was simply agreeing with your father. He sounds like a wise man."

Annika felt her own footsteps falter, a thoughtful frown pulling her mouth into something that resembled a downcast scowl. "I wouldn't say that."

* * *

"That looks like the place."

The bus was split completely in half, its charred and crumbling wreckage spilling onto the canyon floor like the innards of some massive dilapidated creature. Black, small-boned skeletons were scattered here and there, dressed in tattered, woolly, pre-war uniforms that disintegrated into scraps of mushy ash at the slightest breeze.

Annika tried not to look at them too closely, as it twisted her stomach into hot, uncomfortable knots. The sensation produced an unsettling feeling, making her throat close up with a dry sort of nausea.

"Are you alright?" Waking-Cloud asked, giving her a concerned look.

Annika shook her head. "I'm fine," she croaked, quickly turning away to walk towards a shiny metal console that lay half-submerged in water. She scrubbed at her hair and crouched down into a squat, digging a leather pouch and some electrical tools out of her backpack.

Waking-Cloud hovered behind her uncertainly. "Do you need assistance?"

Annika spat out a wire that she'd held between her teeth, viciously jabbing a red-handled screwdriver into one of the metal panels and jumping aside when sparks flew. "No. You can go off and do . . . whatever you came out here to do."

"Are you sure?" Waking-Cloud insisted, crossing her arms with a firm look. "Daniel said to help you if you needed it. He was quite insistent about it."

"Yep," Annika retorted, wiping the backs of her hands on her dirt-spotted trousers. She quickly fished out a yellow note-lined paper and a stubby pencil that was coated with grime. "You go on ahead. I'll be just fine on my own."

Waking-Cloud seemed unconvinced, but she went off anyway, disappearing behind thick clumps of fragrant sedge until she seemed only a faint memory.

Annika blinked several times, cursing herself as her hands kept shaking, trembling like the scratchy green-striped wings of grasshoppers. All she could see were those horrible little skeletons in her mind's eye, and she could feel them at her back, watching her coldly and impassively with those gouged, eyeless sockets of theirs.

It reminded her too much of something similar that had happened to her long, long ago.

 _The corpses were piling up in huge, mountainous stacks of gore, the remaining refugees falling and tripping over them almost comically. Annika stared, unseeing, wrapping the blood-soaked NCR flag more securely around her bony shoulders as all of her friends started dropping around her like imploded flies._

 _She was huddled up in a latrine ditch, covered from head to toe in raw sewage and filth. She stank of ripe garbage, and her head wouldn't stop spinning as she listened to the heartbreaking screams. She laid there, belly-down, silent and deathly still as her wide, shock-filled eyes took everything in._

 _Matsu had only made it ten feet before he got riddled with gaping holes. Kemnin had made it farther, almost to the treeline, but in the end he'd been stabbed in the gut by an exploding piece of shrapnel that'd made him soundlessly collapse to the ground. Hana had only gotten past the shaman's tent before she was mowed down by unseen snipers and their flashing black scopes._

 _Rattling bursts of white-hot gunfire and pockets of blinding flak burst all around Annika in ear-popping explosions, poisoning the very air with the stench of strong chemicals and blood. The literal showers of hail-fire and cannonades tore up the earth, making huge clods of dirt fly upwards in a volcanic eruption of loose soil and missing limbs._

 _She'd raised bloody, trembling hands over her eyes and ears, but she saw and heard everything all the same._

Annika blinked, wobbling back and forth as the flashbacks quickly faded from sight into nothingness, leaving her grief-stricken and breathless with terror.

Six years was a long, long time ago.

And yet it wasn't.

* * *

When Waking-Cloud returned almost two hours later, over-burdened with indigenous herbs and burlap sacks of glowing fungi, she didn't mention Annika's swollen lips or teary-eyed gaze. Instead, she plopped down next to her, stretching out her legs and casually nodding at the assortment of bits and pieces that Annika had gathered.

"Did you get what Joshua asked for?" she asked, her voice soft and lilting.

Annika nodded back, then immediately felt foolish for doing so. She blushed, and quickly began to dig through her backpack, eagerly pawing at the things inside. "I got compasses, shortwave radio transmitters, walkie-talkies, a few jammers, some OCD maps, and a handful of raw electrical components."

Waking-Cloud stared at her incredulously. "You got all of that from a _bus?"_

Annika gave the faintest hint of a smile. "Joshua wrote it all out for me. He said that this used to be a Boy Scouts double-decker minibus, and since they usually worked hand-in-hand with the government, their organisation got all sorts of fancy gadgets that were considered contraband during wartime. Lucky them, right?"

"I . . . see." Waking-Cloud frowned. "Is that all he needed? I thought there would be more."

"He wanted me to check out some gift shop for medical supplies."

Waking-Cloud's face brightened. "I know of such a gift shop nearby. I can show you where it is. It isn't very far from here."

Annika rose, haphazardly stuffing everything into her backpack. "Then we should go."

Waking-Cloud raised a hand, "Wait. It is almost lunchtime."

"And?"

"It is bad luck to travel on an empty stomach."

"I'm not hungry," Annika protested, turning away just as her tummy gave a loud, growly, earth-shaking rumble. She blushed to the roots of her hair and stared firmly at her feet.

Waking-Cloud looked at her reprovingly with the subtle traces of a humourless smile lingering around the corners of her downturned mouth. "You were saying?"

They ate beneath a mossy overhang, lunching on cold-cut slices of Bighorner meat, salted pinyon nuts, biscuits brushed with honey, and nettle cordial. It was a good, hearty meal, but Annika had to force herself to eat despite feeling half-famished. She took a long swig from a metal-studded canteen, roughly scrubbing at her chin with the back of a grubby hand as stray runnels of water dribbled past her lips.

"We should reach the gift shop late in the afternoon," Waking-Cloud said, sitting cross-legged in the breezy shade of a spindle-tree with its blushing, fragrant catkins. She had finished neatly packing away the leftovers, and was leaning back with her liquid-dark eyes firmly fixated on Annika.

Annika licked her fingers clean, pressing a few buttons on her Pip-Boy as it started giving out petulant little beeps. "We should get going, then."

It had seemed like a daunting task at first, finding what Joshua wanted—but it had gradually lengthened itself out into something more manageable. She certainly couldn't back down now—indeed, she almost didn't _want_ to—as there was a dangerous, insatiable need for her to prove herself, again and again.

Subconsciously, she hated his disappointment.

The journey to the gift shop was a short jaunt that took almost an hour. When they finally arrived, the sun was hanging high in the sky like a bright, golden medallion, brushing its warmth against the patchwork landscape in diluted shafts of seeping yellow colour. The surrounding broc flowers and whitish-grey datura plants were drunk with the sunshine, merrily glistening and bouncing along in the saturated breeze as their roots gracelessly tumbled out onto the road, snagging themselves on the cracked asphalt in a multitude of thorny leaves and thick, healthy stalks.

They walked between rundown jalopies and midnight-blue electric runabouts that were scattered here and there in the crumbling parking lot like forgotten jackstones. Annika drew up short, shading her eyes from the sunlight as she leaned up against the side of a rusted car and pointed ahead to a ramshackle building. Weeds sprouted up from the concrete foundation, intermingling with the wooden slats and crumbling slabs of stone.

"This must be the place. It looks pretty abandoned, don't you think?"

Waking-Cloud sauntered past, walking up the sagging front-porch steps. "There are probably bloodbugs inside."

A horrified look crossed Annika's face. "Really?"

"No. I am joking."

Annika jogged to catch up with her, frowning sourly. "You have an awful sense of humour."

The rickety stairs splintered and creaked beneath their feet, groaning in protest from years of disuse as they stepped over the wooden doorframe. It was dark and grimy when they walked inside, the only light being weakly filtered through broken double-paned windows. Dust motes danced in the air like spry little ballerinas before slowly settling around the two intruders in a light film of fuzzy dirt.

Annika coughed, blinking back the filthy speckles of dust from her eyes. When her vision cleared, she stood there stupidly with a wide look of surprise on her face. She turned around in a slow, careful circle, taking everything in.

The store had, well . . . _everything_.

There were brightly painted snuff-boxes, miniature carousels, and pre-war cigarette lighters lining the shelves. Teddy bears, toy cars, lunchboxes, and shiny, plastic packages of brittle yellow pencils were haphazardly stuffed into cardboard boxes that piled up like waxy brown mountains of musty-smelling asbestos. There were rank, half-clotted milk cartons, cosmetic jars, and twelve-cent magazines hanging limply on rusted metal racks. There were rice-paper fans, thick manila envelopes, shiny gold pins, and patriotic flags. There were snowglobes, tacky memorabilia, and bright, gaudy bumper stickers. There were delicate rose-patterned teacups, crystalline decanters, bottles of booze, and mint-green tonics.

And it was all untouched.

"This . . . this is amazing," Annika breathed, her voice giddy and awestruck. "I want to pinch myself to make sure it's true."

Waking-Cloud looked both slightly amused and puzzled. "Why does this make you happy?"

Annika felt stung for a moment, but she quickly recollected herself with a self-deprecating smile. "Where I come from—out in New Vegas—you never find this much stuff. You're always hungry, or cold, or sick. There's just never enough of anything."

Waking-Cloud frowned, shaking her head. "Forgive me. I did not mean it unkindly. This . . . New Vegas of yours sounds like a cruel place."

Annika shook her head, "More than you know."

"It is just . . . nobody hungers here. Nobody wants. Not having enough of anything is a foreign concept in Zion. And we of the tribes do not touch the Back-When things unless it is absolutely necessary."

The smile still lingered around Annika's mouth. "But there are exceptions?"

Waking-Cloud smiled back, her lips twitching. "There are always exceptions."

Annika ducked under a linoleum counter, her hands trailing over rolled pin-up posters. "I suppose that right now is one of those instances?"

Waking-Cloud trailed after her, leaning her hip against a sagging bookshelf. There was another frown on her face. "Yes. But it wasn't a priority until recently, as our ways of healing had always sufficed. Yet now . . . now I fear for Zion."

Annika glanced up, a strange glimmer in her eyes. "Why do you say that?"

"Joshua does not like to admit it, but war _is_ coming. It follows him around like a murderous child, and there will be no peace until he finds such within himself. But whether war comes from Caesar, the White Legs, or something else entirely, I do not know. I unfortunately have not been gifted with the talent of foresight."

Annika gritted her teeth, and stiffly said, "What do you know of Caesar?"

Waking-Cloud dusted off a cobwebbed poster, looking at it with a momentary look of interest. "I know that he is a smart man, but he behaves cruelly like a wild animal. I know that he demands nothing short of absolute loyalty to the Legion, and that the ways of warfare and bloodlust are familiar to him. I know that he believes himself holy, as if he were a false god, and that Joshua's survival was a great blow to his self-proclaimed divinity."

"You pronounce his name like one of his followers."

Waking-Cloud leaned over the counter curiously. "Joshua taught me the pronunciation. Am I saying it wrong?"

Annika suddenly stood upright, clutching something in her hand. "No! No—I just—I killed him. I killed Caesar. With a kitchen knife." Her eyes widened at the unexpected outburst, and her cheeks flushed vibrantly with both relief and shame.

Waking-Cloud raised her eyebrows at the kerfuffle, a look of revulsion briefly flitting across her solemn face. She stopped herself, frowning slightly as she contemplated Annika's sudden confession. "I did not know that."

Annika looked away, her fingers jerking back and forth. "Do you think that I'm . . . I'm . . ."

"No." Waking-Cloud reached out a hand, then quickly thought better of it. Her fingers swung away, hanging limply in the stagnant air as she gave a deep, frustrated sigh, the inside of her nostrils flaring red. "No. The true Lord forgives even the heaviest sins. And without sin, what grace is there in forgiveness?"

A laugh slipped past Annika's mouth as she flicked her eyes up. "You sound like a preacher."

Waking-Cloud moved back, shaking her head more vigorously, as if she were trying to convince herself. "I speak only the truth. You may have committed a wrongdoing, but you also stopped a tyrant from doing more harm. Caesar was a very evil man, leading Joshua astray for many, many years until he became the Burned Man. It is good that he will no longer be converting more to his cause. Just—just do not ask me for forgiveness. That is not my place."

"I appreciate your honesty." Annika slipped past her, moving into the shadows with a conflicted expression. "But . . . we really should look around for those medical supplies."

"As you say." Waking-Cloud shouldered her broomstick, trailing after her and taking the flimsy excuse at face value.

Annika shuffled her feet, stopping in front of a closed wooden door. She peered at the brassy lock before moving down onto her knees, sitting back on her haunches and fishing out a bobby-pin from under the pouffy curls of her hair. Her slim hands worked delicately, swiftly, moving first one way and then the other as she inserted the bobby-pin into the lock and started jiggling it around.

"What are you doing?" Waking-Cloud whispered loudly, stooping over her.

Annika shouted, twisting around like a blurry torpedo. "Shit! Stop _doing_ that!"

Waking-Cloud looked at her worriedly. "Are you having a seizure?"

Annika glowered, angrily working her jaw into a stupor. "No. But I am going to duct-tape you to a chair."

There was a quizzical look in Waking-Cloud's smiling eyes. "What's duct-tape?"

Annika ran a tired hand down her face. "You know what? Never mind." She pivoted back around and reached up, twisting the brass doorknob. She watched the door open with a look of grim satisfaction. "I'd bet a thousand caps that there are some supplies in there."

She scrambled upright and shouldered through the doorway, fumbling for her Pip-Boy light. She flicked it on, raising the machine as she glanced around. The greenish-white flooded the room with a sickly glow as she stepped inside, bathing the furniture in pasty hues. Her eyes were sharp and alert, quickly taking everything in. There was a battered old roll-up desk shoved into a corner, and a folded-up chair placed next to it. A few filing cabinets loomed nearby, chock-full of adult magazines and newspaper clippings. Annika made a straight beeline to the wooden medicine cabinet that stood opposite the door, clumsily tripping over a mop and catching herself on the desk with a heavy thud.

"Are you alright?" Waking-Cloud was but a shadow in the doorframe.

"Yeah—I'm fine!" Annika thumbed her nose, leaving a soot mark behind as she stood back up and paused, glancing at the RobCo terminal that lay on the surface of the desk, slumbering like a mechanical beast. She hesitated, then tapped the square power button, watching the sprawling, wiry computer boot to life.

"I found a case," Waking-Cloud said, leaning over her shoulder and gently setting down a red-and-white first-aid box. "The fancy cabinet was unlocked."

"That's great!" Annika unfolded the chair, plopping down into it and slipping out another copper bobby-pin. She cracked open the lacquered case in a matter of seconds, twisting the metal clasps and peering inside.

There were some sticky, half-dissolved Atabrine tablets, hypodermic syringes, rolls of spotlessly white gauze, shiny scissors, two pairs of blue latex gloves, alcohol swabs, and little green sulfanilamide pills. She carefully sifted through small disposable towels, shallow boxes of aspirin, and other medical sundries, making sure not to disturb the neatly ordered piles.

Annika looked up, her hair spilling over her shoulders. "Isn't there more? Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. It's just that—I mean—I don't think this'll be enough. If a war is coming."

Waking-Cloud grinned, a subdued excitement flashing in her eyes as she swung open the cabinet's glass door. Inside, rows upon rows of first-aid kits stood proudly, solemnly, their pristine white surfaces sparkling like glossy cuts of untouched marble.

Annika drummed her fingers on the desk, grinning back. "I knew I liked you for a reason."

"I'm glad that I'm of use," Waking-Cloud replied, standing even straighter with a proud look. "Joshua will be most pleased."

"Do you think so?" Annika almost looked contemplative.

"Of that I am most certain." Waking-Cloud tilted her head, as if she was considering something. Finally, she spoke, her voice taking on a softer, more velvety timbre. Her tone lacked its normal, dry censure, sounding quiet and motherly in the muffled room as she shifted around uncomfortably. Like she was almost afraid of bringing up another disastrous subject, but felt inclined to do so anyways. "He told me about what happened a few days ago, you know."

Annika froze, her wide eyes glimmering like a feral cat's. They were flat, liquid pools of murky darkness that soaked up all light except for around the irises, which shimmered iridescently. They darted everywhere, somehow guilty-looking in the faint gloom. "You heard about that? I—"

Waking-Cloud raised a hand up, silently forbidding her to speak as her trim mouth pursed into a thoughtful frown. "Let me continue, if you please. Yes, Joshua spoke to me about it, and I firmly believe that it was an accident. A foolish one, but one all the same. Nobody was hurt, and it forced Joshua to do something wise for a change."

Annika stared at her incredulously, a skeptical smile quivering at her lips. "You're really not mad about it?"

Waking-Cloud's mouth twisted wryly in response as she tilted her head owlishly. "I'd be shocked if anyone were still upset with you."

Annika tapped her chin, baring her teeth. "I kinda destroyed the whole camp, you know."

"Kinda?"

"Accidentally." Annika grimaced.

Waking-Cloud sighed, looking as if she desperately wanted to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Do you think that you are the first young one to create such pandemonium? Don't answer that. We of Zion will persevere, as we always have.

"The Dead Horses are very vigorous people, and while the destruction of their camp is a hefty misfortune to be pitied, it allows them to move to a more defensible position. Now, they can go to sleep knowing that their children are safe and far from harm. You have given them a sort of peace, even if they haven't realised it yet. The Bighorners will settle down, in time. And so will Zion's people."

"You think so?"

Waking-Cloud stopped, gathering her thoughts as she moved to a horizontally narrow window that was covered up with a frilly space-themed curtain. She fingered the edges of it almost thoughtfully, an faraway look clouding over her wizened eyes. "Joshua's emotions have always been his downfall, you know. They cloud his feelings and warp his sense. You . . . you have the potential to . . ." She gnawed on her lip. "You are the chaos he needs."

Annika felt puzzled, sitting back with her feet propped up on the slim rungs of the cheap plastic chair. She couldn't fight the blush staining her cheeks. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Waking-Cloud whirled around, her movements suddenly feverish and hopeful. "You wish to remain here in Zion, do you not? I can see it in your eyes. The longing, the sincerity. You need this place as much as it needs you. So—so prove it. Show to Joshua and the Dead Horses your trustworthiness."

Annika looked at her as if she were crazy., yet somehow incredibly sane. "How would I do that?"

Waking-Cloud didn't falter for a minute, a faint smile hovering near the corners of her prim mouth. "You must take action."


	11. Chapter 10

_**A/N:** I bumped it up to M this chapter, just to be safe. _

_**Nat:** I'm glad that you liked the chapter—and don't worry, there's a lot of Annika/Joshua in the next chapter ;)_

 _ **Michelle:** Thanks for taking the time to read my story! I'm extremely happy that you're enjoying it, and I'm beyond excited that you managed to pick up on the nuances of the characters! You definitely aren't reading into things, as I wanted to create tension between Joshua and Daniel. I will hopefully get the next chapter out sooner :) _

* * *

Cold.

It was cold.

Her breathing felt too shallow, too light and feathery—like the vapid, breathy, but strangely knowing whispers of the undead. A pervading dampness chilled the marrow of her shaking bones despite the presence of many, many warm blankets being pressed down upon her limp body into a foreign weight that she couldn't quite register, nor properly feel. But the uncomfortable coolness lingered all the same.

A sharp, throbbing pain echoed in the back of her aching skull. It stubbornly, fiercely, and harshly clung to the warped edges of her consciousness like a vibrant parasite, quickly prying her eyelids apart into a sudden, intolerable awareness.

She gasped, her eyes fluttering open as she blinked back the soft, buttery light that loomed behind her on the right. The culprit, she found, was a tall lamp that stood behind the ragtag couch that she was currently curled up on. It threw dappled prints of colour onto the faded cushions—and, consequently, her. It seemed proud—at least, as proud as inanimate objects could get—shielding her against the murky darkness with a fringed cover and spotted brass base.

The rest of the room was congested with endless knick-knacks, and smelled faintly of wet cigars and dusty mothballs. There was a half-broken pianoforte shoved in the corner, and a glossy cabinet resided next to it with a particular neglected solemnness. A shiny phonograph was perched on a stained coffee table near a throng of clustered, wing-backed chairs, which were themselves situated between a brickwork fireplace and a large bay window—the rippled curtains were closed shut, denying her any sense of time. Bookshelves filled the rest of the confining space, their oaken shelves barely scraping against the walls and sunken ceiling in a strange, almost pressing delicacy.

She wrinkled her nose, sitting upright with a wince. Her limbs felt both leaden and afire all at once, and she could hardly move from the sharp, twisting pain that stole her breath away in stumbling gulps of air. A dizzying lightheadedness made her vision swim in every direction as she clutched at her head with trembling fingers—only to find that her hair was shorn clean off, leaving a bare, fuzzy scalp behind.

She began to panic, anxiety wrestling the reason from her hyperventilating mind as she flailed her arms about and hoarsely shouted at the top of her lungs. Her voice sounded throaty and rough like uncut wood, and her mouth felt clogged up and sticky with thirst, giving way to the unknown amount of time when she'd been unconscious. She was naked and vulnerable, she quickly realised, and her breath came in short, sudden gasps as she looked raw and completely humiliated, clutching at the stale air.

Time came to a standstill. Her skin gleamed with the hot flashes of unwanted memories. She could feel the spotting geysers of imaginary blood spattering her face—and the screams. Oh, the screams. They went pounding through her head at a marching rhythm; wailing, taunting, and as bloodcurdling as only the sirens of the dead could truly be. It shattered her innocence. She wept and begged like a colicky baby, falling to the hardwood floors with a heavy thud of defeat.

"Mama! Mama—come quick!"

A hand at grabbed her shoulder, unfamiliar fingers digging into her tawny skin and leaving red marks, damning her like all the others. She shrieked, firmly pressing her puffy, tear-struck cheek to the threadbare rug that caressed her with its shaggy tendrils, smothering her nostrils with the musty scent of mothballs.

"Mama! She's loose!"

"No! No, please!" She tried to fight them off, screaming hysterically and thrashing her arms about—but she quickly found herself being roughly hauled upright and backhanded with a resounding _smack_. She gasped, feeling the blood rise to her stricken face in a reddening welt of shame and confusion.

"You see now—you stop that!"

She looked upwards through her quivering eyelashes, and confusedly stared at a plump, frowning woman who glared right back. A small girl shuffled behind her in the deepening shadows, sitting down on a cast-iron staircase with a heavy-handed shotgun awkwardly nestled in her flannel arms, her eyes glinting like flashes of silver in the darkness.

The pressure suddenly tightened on her thin shoulders, and Annika realised that the woman was squeezing her—hard. It felt like grinding concrete against her sweaty skin, and it fully arrested her attention as she tried to squirm away in discomfort.

There was another loud smack, and she saw stars.

The woman shook her again, this time more roughly. "You stop that, you hear? And no more screamin' and hollering like a scared biddy. That caterwauling probably kill't my damn crops already, and woke up them farmhands."

Annika looked at her, wild-eyed and dazed from her nightmares that were just beginning to clear like a foggy mist. An overwhelming sense of horror threatened to drown her in the swelling waves of an anxiety-induced tsunami, but the stem of the tide was held back by the threats of this steely-faced woman who seemed to dare her to misbehave.

She opened her pursed mouth, then quickly snapped it shut and managed a small, almost imperceptible nod. Her strange descent into madness had been seemingly waylaid, at least for the moment as dizziness suddenly overtook her. She slouched into a submissive gesture to fight it off, and then tried to cover herself at the lack of modesty.

There was a knowing look in the woman's no-nonsense gaze, as if she held the importance of something vital over her. Annika was pushed back onto the couch, and a quilted blanket was thrown over her skinny lap, covering any unmentionables.

"Now," the woman said, plopping big-fisted hands on her hips as she strode back and forth like a hungry chicken, her large feet making the floorboards creak and groan in protest, "I own that lil couch you been sleepin' on for three days, and this whole damn house t'boot. So you're going show some respect. Alright?"

Annika stared at the woman, her honey-brown eyes wide with surprise and fear. Then she slowly held up three delicate fingers, as if to confirm the bold statement. _Three whole days?_

But the woman did not understand, or she simply didn't care to understand.

"I said," she said snappishly, leaning closer, "do we understand?" They were almost nose-to-nose, face-to-face. Her breath came out hot and quick in short little puffs of air, washing over the space between them with a faint scent of sourness.

Annika blinked before nodding again, this time furiously, her head bouncing up and down and her teeth clacking together. She felt like a fool as she still held her hand up in a futile gesture. She moved around on the uncomfortable couch, first one way, and then the other as she waited. And waited.

 _Was it really three days?_

She felt nauseous and lightheaded at the very thought of being practically comatose for so long _._ Her fingers trembled slightly, and her face sharply crumpled into a deep frown when no response was given to her unspoken question. During the thick, heavy silence, her uncertain gaze became keener and even more uncertain, and the corners of her mouth quivered with agitation.

"Good," the woman finally said, choosing to ignore her for the moment as she clicked her wooden clogs together.. The sound reverberated oddly around the little room. "Youse can talk now. Missy'll git you clothes—and, by the by, what's your name?"

She shook her head. "Annika," she croaked, her voice quiet and jagged like the broken spokes of a wheel. She desperately pointed to her fingers again.

The woman stared at her blankly. "Hmm. S'alright, I suppose. My name's Shona—but you best call me mistress or ma'am from now on. I'm your elder, so mind youse betters and get a grip on them nasty manners of yours. I won't abide loose tongues, 'specially from whippersnappers like you."

Annika pointed to her fingers, becoming frantic. Her mouth felt stuffed-up with cotton, making it almost impossible to speak aloud.

The woman rolled her eyes and heaved a large sigh befitting her stout figure. "Yeah, like I said, it's been three days now. Don't go doubting me now, _tribal_ , else I'll throw you out to the coyotes. They been awful hungry these days, howling up at the moon."

Annika stared at her, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise. "You . . . "

Shona gave a sour smile, her eyes glittering. "Thassa right. I know what you are. The NCR calls you a terrorist, girl, how you feel 'bout that? If you weren't so young I woulda already turned you over to the authorities. Maybe—maybe I still will."

"No—no please . . ." Annika swallowed tightly and clasped her hands together, ignoring the smarting sense of her dignity being wounded. She felt incredibly small right then, and she became self-branded with an indescribable sense of loss borne from the events that had violently spiralled out of her control.

 _No_. Those events had never been in her control in the first place. They were as out of reach from her grasp as the distant, faraway mountains of snowy Jacobstown. Yet she couldn't reconcile herself to the fact until many years later. Then, in the moment, she felt solely responsible for everything that had happened. The destruction and following massacre weighed heavily on her shoulders, clouding her thoughts with untamed hatred and guilt.

The woman snorted derisively, drawing Annika back from the quagmires of her troubled mind. "Yeah. Like I thought. You just a pathetic tribal. Ain't no terrorist—you just a puppy. But puppies like you still have little fangs, right? Why don't you smile for me, puppy? Smile like you did for all them thugs who prolly screwed your drugged-up poon."

Annika blinked at the harsh words, recoiling from them with a terrified flinch. Her eyes turned wide and glossy like polished mirrors. She tried not to shake with the wretchedness of her position, and firmly stared at the wooden floorboards. "No."

"Did I tell you to speak right now? No—I said smile, girlie," Shona cried angrily, her face quickly turning into a ripe shade of bright crimson. "You can't, can you? Can you? You ain't even human—just a sick, wild little creature. It's your kind that goes 'round and 'round and and tries to kill good people—like my husband and sweet boy. You ain't even thought about that, have you?"

Here was one of the dazzling hypocrites of the apocalypse. The woman despised how the NCR took her dearest relatives, yet staunchly supported their most heinous deeds at the preying fear of them being taken over by a more malignant force. And so each enemy utterly destroyed—even unintentionally—was oddly celebrated with a bitter exuberance. Shona, among enemies, revealed herself to be a false, hypocritical woman with her principles deeply rooted in xenophobic propaganda.

Annika was unable to stop the trembling that made her bones quake like the hollow wind-chimes in a strong breeze. She couldn't understand the extent of the strange hatred being thrust upon her, and thereby shunned the cracked foundations of Shona's reasoning for a more instinctive reaction, which involved hiding with the blanket and moving further away.

The woman seemed to compose herself after a moment. "You're just a puppy," Shona soothed, running swollen hands over the pleated folds of her calico dress. She glanced at Annika with a contemptible look. "You didn't steal that flag I found you with, did you?"

"No."

The woman narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "You ain't lying, is you?" She suddenly darted forwards with surprising speed, grabbing Annika's chin with one large hand and smushing her cheeks together. "I can't abide liars, you see."

Annika shook her head in denial, spittle flying from her lips as she babbled, pushing back and flashing the whites of her eyes. "I'm not a liar."

They were interrupted by Missy rejoining them, a pile of faded clothes in her arms. The woman stepped back, a sweetly unpleasant smile unfurling on her lips. She looked not unlike an adder as she clasped wrinkled hands beneath her full skirt and petticoats, rocking her head side to side.

Missy offered Annika a toothy grin, unaware of what had just taken place. The tension quickly dissolved with her soothing presence as she hummed something unintelligible under her breath. She dropped the clothes on the couch with another large smile, patting them encouragingly with both hands before flouncing back to her mother.

She seemed blissfully unconscious of her mother's apparent cruelty—for she pointedly ignored Annika's silently desperate gaze. It was like a thick film was placed over her naive eyes, and she felt unwilling to disillusion herself by something disagreeable. She did not desire the truth, as she was powerless to stop it, and she felt that it would spoil her fun. Therefore she resolved to ignore it completely.

"Well, then," Shona remarked, gathering her skirts together and giving a firm, resolute nod. "You get dressed, and we'll find you somethin' to do."

* * *

Three weeks passed.

Shona thought of herself as a woman of high class, both spiritually and academically. She felt like she was a moralist of God, and struggled deeply with taking in Annika, for—even though the girl was merely a child—she was still considered a terrorist by most of New Vegas. And a highly dangerous one, at that. The NCR said so on the radio, and she couldn't find the warmth or kindness within herself to deny their buzzing words of warning.

The safety of her family came first and foremost. And, while her upstanding moral conscience wouldn't allow her to toss Annika out into the wastelands, she ended up treating the girl condescendingly and disdainfully, like she would a misbehaving dog.

Oftentimes, Shona was forced to whip Annika for her unruliness and blatant disobedience with a black leathery bullwhip, dragging her beneath a dead aspen tree and making Missy watch. As time dragged on, the girl's spirit slowly diminished from the incessant beatings, until on one particularly sluggish June morning—something remarkably momentous happened.

In a whisper, in a shout, everything suddenly changed like someone had snapped their fingers. Annika's heathen defiance utterly crumbled, and she became instantly compliant and sober in a painful, soul-rending heartbeat. One moment she was alive, vibrant, and annoyingly defiant to the core. And in the next, nothing former remained. It was a quick transition, taking place so swiftly and dizzily that sometimes she couldn't remember what she was like before.

Those days were the hardest.

She had broken down and began to blubber into her outstretched arms. _Anything to stop the pain,_ Annika had thought. _Anything_.

Her incoherent screams were swallowed up by the merciless blue sky as she rolled over onto the dirt, suddenly cut loose from the bonds that had tied her up to the bare-branched tree which stood near the haymow. The hot, dry wind scoured over her naked skin, making the whip-marks on her glistening back leak thin streams of blood. She laid there on the ground, prone and panting as the dryness in her throat turned into a terrible thirst.

Shona stood back, smiling. She held a purplish-white kitchen knife in her hand, a victorious look in her flashing eyes. She had tasted the inevitably sweet tang of victory on her tongue and, clinging to the feeling like a babe, she turned away and marched up into the clapboard house.

That same afternoon Shona celebrated by drinking lukewarm lemonade out on the front porch with Missy, publicly declaring aloud that her success had been nothing short of unavoidable. She couldn't have been more proud of her accomplishments, crowing over them and giggling into her crystal-cut glass with a decidedly girlish smile.

Missy had shyly grinned back, anxiously ignoring the animalistic sounds going on behind her with such a tremendous effort that her legs trembled beneath the starchy tablecloth. The source of the appalling noises came from Annika, who hovered somewhere in the background, unceremoniously bent halfway over a rusty water-trough as a disgruntled farmhand sloshed salted water over her back.

Her hands clutched at the lip of the trough, the corrugated metal digging into her skin as she rocked back and forth, the water soaking her hair and blinding her eyes. The starbursts of pain that accompanied the sloshings of water almost made her faint, and all she could taste was salt. The farmhand had to hold her steady by roughly grabbing onto the seat of her trousers.

Shona raised a glass, tilting the rim towards her daughter as Annika screamed again. "To a brighter future."

Missy copied her, quickly stuffing a cookie into her mouth to hide her uneasiness.

* * *

Shona eagerly awaited news from her boys in the NCR, day by day, week by week, her optimism bounding away from her until a message finally arrived from a brow-beaten courier in the form of a battered red envelope.

Annika had glanced at the letter from the corner, clutching a wooden pail in her hands. She caught a quick flash of its dusty surface and cluttered-up postal stamps before quietly slinking off. The chores were endless on the farm, and she had clammed up into a cold sweat at the thought of being punished again for shirking them.

She slept in the cellar at nights, and wasn't allowed to eat inside with the family. She was fed only with the leftovers—if there happened to be any—and was given the worst jobs around the plantation. She mucked out the Brahmin stalls, washed the laundry, and unclogged the sewage-filled outhouses. She scrubbed the hardwood floors until her hands began to bleed, turning the soapy water in the bucket a light red.

She angrily stoked the fires in the pot-bellied stove, watching as her fingers burned and sizzled—but it did not thaw her heart. She desperately cried into her pink, balled-up hands at night, blankly staring at the ceiling of the grimy cellar—but the nightmares continued to ceaselessly haunt her. She hopelessly waited for the abuse to end with a cruel, twisted sort of optimism. But, subconsciously, she already knew that the maltreatment would never stop.

The thing that was the most surprising, however, was that she pulled through, and scraped out a miserable existence. It was such a disorienting revelation that Annika became dizzy while doing the dishes, and everything looked gauzy through the sudden film of tears in her eyes.

As time passed, the days and nights elapsed together into a fuzzy blur. Annika's hopes and dreams slowly withered away and died off, until they dried up overnight and vanished into thin air, as if they had never existed in the first place.

Just like her soul.

* * *

Shona grew more and more afraid. Her husband and son were coming home soon for some necessary shore-leave—they wrote her frequently, communicating their eagerness—and she felt terrified of them discovering Annika upon their return. She became irrationally frigid at the very thought of being condemned on the principles of patriotism that she hadn't adhered to.

She couldn't afford to lose her family. She loved them too much. And so it was firmly decided that the girl had to go before they arrived, and Shona promptly made an appointment with an intense young man who desired cheap labour. She did not care in the slightest why he specifically wanted a little girl, as his reasons of having her were convoluted and boring enough—she barely caught the tail-end of his excuses, only wishing that Annika should be gone before the 20th.

"She's a wiry little thing," Shona had declared, staring at the man with frantic and guilty eyes. "But when she's cleaned up, she looks like—like a real songbird in the desert. And she does her chores right quick without a fuss."

They had met at the Grub n' Gulp rest stop, withdrawing inside one of the shanty-like cabins to conduct their business. Shona had been determined not to travel there without a proper excuse, and had driven to the market with the honorable pretense of picking up some nonessentials for the farmhands. She heard Missy playing outside through the thin walls of the shack, and felt her eyes moisten inexplicably with a heartsick feeling of shame.

"I see," the man had replied, leaning back in his winged-back chair. He spoke quietly but elegantly, as the low hum of the shoddy generators outside drowned out their conversation. "And she is in excellent health, I presume?"

"Very," Shona said laughingly. She found the suave man oddly intolerable to her delicate sensibilities, but she'd been unable to find a way to gracefully back herself out of the deal without causing a huge scandal. She couldn't afford for the man to squawk if he got displeased, and any idle gossip would almost certainly bring about the ruination of her family.

 _It's for the best,_ Shona told herself, pretending to dab at her eyes with a threadbare handkerchief.

The man smiled, tilting his head to one side. He was exceedingly tall and lithe, with a disheveled head of curly black hair that shone like oil. There was a sleekness to his face that was distinctly feminine, and despite the rough traces of stubble on his cheeks and the brightness that made his eyes seem both feral and half-delirious, he looked well-dressed and remarkably composed.

Shona watched him like a hawk. There was something . . . off about him, but she adamantly refused to go back on their arrangement—not only would it compromise her polished reputation and position of discretion, but she'd also lose a healthy amount of money. She could use the wages for much needed repairs around the farm. The girl was nothing to her, she told herself, especially when she was compared to the importance of NCR banknotes.

One was fleeting, the other was not.

"The girl's healthier than a bull—the Lord himself may attest to that," Shona pronounced stiffly, feeling ill at ease with an agitated look of impatience. She fluttered a hand in the air almost as an afterthought. "But you know that _their_ type are always ornery and such."

He had raised his eyebrows, folding his hands together at her comment with a darkly amused smile. "As you say, madame. You are the one touting her around as merchandise. Yet, I grow incessantly impatient—you haven't told me _when_ I may see the girl. _Le temps devient court_."

"Ah." Shona's polite smile faded and she felt oddly insulted, although she didn't understand a single whit of what he had just said in that strange language. "Is . . . was that French?"

"Your astuteness continues to astound," the man cheekily said, giving her a devil-may-care grin as he played with the brim of his hat. "I speak many dialects, as it is necessary for the nature of my . . . unique profession. I deal with hundreds of immigrants to New Vegas daily, and not everyone speaks English. I apologise for the unnecessary slip. There's no need to worry, madame, I said nothing disgraceful. But back to business—"

"—Yes," Shona interrupted, missing the subtle look of annoyance that he shot her. There was an eagerness in her movements as she leaned forwards. "You can see her tonight—no, tomorrow! I need her well and truly gone before the 20th. That's when my boys come home, and I can't have no mixed-up loafers like her loitering around."

"Of course," the man murmured, crossing one pant-clad ankle over the other. It was a effeminate pose, yet it fit him all the more handsomely, and Shona was struck by his nonchalant posture as he pulled out a little black book. He languidly flipped it open to a dog-eared page. "You couldn't possibly besmirch the spotless respect of your household."

"Exactly," Shona had replied, missing his arrogant tone with a brittle smile. She felt almost delirious, and desired nothing more than to conclude their business already. "You may swing by tomorrow morning—provided that you have the agreed-upon amount of money."

"Of course," the man repeated cordially, his lips twitching slightly. He scribbled something in the book with a stubby pencil. "In case you want to change your mind about the type of payment that you wish to receive, I remind you before I depart that I employ all sorts of archaic currencies—including bottlecaps and Legion coins."

"Oh!" Shona said, clutching her neck with a horrified look that was almost comical. "Why on God's heavenly earth would you deal with such . . . such barbarism? Am I to believe that you're one of those demons in disguise?"

The man gave a rakish smile, and there was a shadowy darkness in his blue eyes that almost bordered on insolent. "Not at all, madame. I simply do not, ah . . . _discriminate_. New Vegas rules state that, as an emissary of the city itself, I must remain neutral and accommodating to all parties."

His flowery response would have alarmed Shona had she not already been feverish with her unintelligible thoughts and mounting guilt. What he said made no sense to her, his words running together as she kept fidgeting and making wild, half-realised conjectures about almost everything, and yet nothing in particular. She fought the uncomfortable, anxious look from her face, smiling stiffly and nodding along.

She perceived that they were quickly approaching the climax of their deal. She stood upright, bobbing her head and feeling her cheeks flush with heat. The man's assurances ended up greatly soothing her irritability and bouts of cowardice, acting as a miraculous balm to her frazzled nerves—it also propelled their conversation inevitably towards the conclusion of their distasteful arrangement, to which Shona smiled as she gave him the directions to her home. They shook hands on it.

"Goodbye," Shona hastily said, before rushing outside once he'd opened the door. A blatant look of relief stamped itself onto her face as she marched away, calling Missy to her side and patting her golden-haired head with an affectionate smile, hooking her arm through the crook of her ruddy elbow. _I did this for you, my love._

She rejoined the ebbing throng of marketeers almost effortlessly, and the incident fell to the very back of her mind as she purchased the groceries, merrily haggled with the vendors, and settled her daughter into the waggon that had driven them there. It was a old-fashioned prairie schooner, and had provided the locals with a spot of shade until recently.

As it stood, it was nearing late afternoon, and the hot sun looked enormously huge up in the bright blue sky. Its merciless rays turned everyone's skin a brownish-pink, burning up the atmosphere with an indescribable heat that layered a film of shiny sweat on everything. There were no clouds, and the very air shimmered with tension, bathing the stalls and cow-pens in waves of tortuous humidity.

Shona lifted her head to the wind, glancing back to see a solitary figure lope off into the trembling desert. But the strangeness of it didn't seem to interest her as she quickly looked away, sighing.

Instead, she closed her eyes, listening attentively to what was happening around her. The hot breeze scoured her cheeks like the blasts from a raging furnace, and she suddenly felt vibrant and alive from it. Smiling, and in a rather generous spirit that enlivened her mature face, she doubled back to buy some pre-war cakes and three more pounds of sugar.

There was going to be a fine celebration dinner tonight, Shona thought, curiously unbothered by the dreaded Mojave warmth that inevitably preceded the skyrocketing temperatures of summer with a fierce, crackling bite.

* * *

Annika felt that she was dying, but living at the same time. It was an unutterable feeling, and the unfairness of it was almost overwhelming. During the daytime she was quiet, cold, and implacable. She was as unmoving as a mountain while she completed her chores, her eyes flinty and savage like a true tribal. But each night she lay broken in the sweaty dark, a crippled thing with its wings torn. She cried herself to sleep most nights, loudly sobbing into her straw pillow as she grieved.

She grieved for her mother. For her father. For her friends and family. The list of the dead went on and on, parading endlessly around her head in a gruesome march. Annika had never felt so alone and betrayed.

She found herself shocked when Missy visited her in the cellar one evening, clambering down the concrete steps and throwing open one of the creaky doors. She bounced back on her heels, inviting Annika to dinner with sparkling eyes and a strangely light step despite her growingly chubby figure.

She practically dragged Annika outside in a fit of giggles, throwing away her cold and lofty demeanor for the moment. Together, they scrubbed their hands and faces under the rusty water-pump until their skin felt chapped and tender. The water was like a sheet of hammered glass, and Annika greedily let the iciness of it slip past her lips, her throat gulping it down in big thirsty swallows. The fresh coldness of it stung her raw hands, and splashed against her burning fingers.

Annika did everything reluctantly, yet jubilantly, feeling that she was at the butt of a cruel joke. Hot tears threatened to sting at the very edges of her eyes when she thought of the likeliness of it being a trick, but she quickly dried her face all the same, following Missy into the dingy kitchen with an obedient look.

Shona was sitting inside at the scuffed table, dressed in a puffy lilac gown that was belted at the waist with a gingham girdle. When she saw Annika she forced a smile, gesturing to her.

Annika crossed mosquito-thin arms over her chest, painfully aware that she carried the faint traces of Brahmin dung about her. She'd never been able to wash out the pungent scent of the barnyard despite her best efforts at it; the stinkiness followed her around like flies on crap.

"Mistress."

"I ain't gonna bite you," Shona urged, tilting her nose upwards to avoid the rank scent. Her face puckered up and went sour like an overripe lemon, but she maintained a false, brittle smile nevertheless. "Here, come here."

She grabbed Annika and roughly yanked her forwards, pecking her on the cheek when she came closer with hesitant footsteps. She had to fight the urge to roll her eyes with contempt as the girl almost fell over in surprise. It was a dry, quick, passionless gesture, but something unexpected of her all the same. Shona pulled away with another disdainful smile.

Annika looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Thank you," she said quietly, feeling like a wounded animal that was about to be slaughtered.

"Sit," Shona said, snapping her fingers. She looked vastly pleased with herself when the girl obeyed with alacrity, scooting back the chair and toppling into the musty-smelling pillows that cushioned the rickety seat.

Shona fidgeted a little, then smiled again. "I made you this," she continued, grandly waving to the large spread on the table with a preening look.

Annika stared at the checked tablecloth, roving her eyes over the clean floral plates, the polished utensils, and the green oil-lamp that hung above them. The lattermost gently swung back and forth from an overhead wooden crossbeam, throwing grid-iron shadows onto their disparate faces.

She quickly turned her gaze to the food in a speedy obedience, feeling Shona's growing impatience. There were chicken cutlets, stirred grits, deviled eggs, sliced apples, a bowl of desert salad, and pre-war cakes topped with creamy icing. To finish it all off there were tall glasses of clean, sparkling water to compliment their palates.

Annika felt that she was in a terrible dream. She rubbed the caky grit from her eyes, daring to look twice at the table. She couldn't remember the last time that she seen so much food, and she almost thought it a dream were it not for the dull rumblings of her empty stomach. She quickly covered her mouth with a shaking hand before she could drool all over the table like a salivating dog, silently darting a glance at Missy, who sat across from her with a curious, if distant grin.

The heavenly-smelling meal suggested a compromise—a twisted communions of sorts. But Annika was nothing if not a clever girl, as cruelty and hard labour had sharpened her wits into a fine, subjugated point. She sensed that larger things were at play here despite the happiness that threatened to overwhelm her.

 _This isn't real,_ Annika thought suspiciously. She opened her mouth to speak, but could only choke out a half-intelligible reply as a distressing emotion glittered in her soft eyes.

"What?" Shona said, staring at her closely with a frowning expression. "Don't get fresh with me, now—speak up, puppy."

Annika looked at her. "Why?" she asked desperately. Her voice sounded raw and unnatural as she gripped at the edge of the table with trembling fingers, checking the rising up of humiliating feelings that remained eager to tear apart her soul at the mere thought, at the mere allusion to human kindness.

This was the first time in almost a year that she had been treated like a person. And she couldn't— _wouldn't_ believe it.

"Why?" Shona repeated incredulously, staring at her with a mixture of dislike and contempt. "Goodness, are you always so ungrateful? I thought that you would like it. Now, what do you say to me?"

Annika lowered her eyes. "Thank you."

 _What else can I say?_

"There," Shona said in response, loudly clearing her throat and nudging a fork in her direction with a frilly-clad elbow. Annika picked it up confusedly. "You are such a sweet little songbird when you're like this and not constantly mouthing me off. I almost forget sometimes that you ain't so much trouble."

"Thank you," Annika repeated, her fingers tightening imperceptibly as she stared at the peeling wallpaper on the yellowing walls.

A strange, glistening look suddenly struck Shona's eyes, aging her considerably as she picked up a folded napkin and began to studiously clean an invisible speck of dirt on another piece of flatware.

The air felt fraught with an unknown tension. The breeze that blew through the kitchen was warm but brisk, gently stirring the edges of the tablecloth. After a time Shona stilled, then suddenly turned around to face Annika, a smile forcing its way onto her face.

"Annika. Annika, darling, you really are a good girl. And you like it here, don't you?"

Annika started back. "I—yes, ma'am."

Shona firmly shook her head. She reached for her hands, then thought better of it, quickly switching over and awkwardly patting Annika's shoulder instead. "But you want to see the world, don't you? Surely you don't want to spend the rest of your life mucking out the privies."

Annika leaned away. "Oh, no, ma'am. I like it just fine here."

Shona gave a brittle laugh, waving her off. "It's alright, girlie. You can be honest. I know that the farm can be dull sometimes, and while it's safe, there isn't any room for . . . _opportunities_ for your kind."

Annika felt her insides heave up into her throat. "Opportunities?"

Shona nodded, then glanced over at Missy with a lighthearted smile. "Sweetheart, can you go down and fetch us some more ice? I'm afraid that I didn't grab enough."

Missy hopped off her chair, swinging her legs and watching them carefully before shooting off a shy, pleasing grin. "Sure, Mama."

Shona looked back at Annika, steepling her fingers together and waiting until the kitchen door swung closed, leaving them alone. There was a barely perceptible grimace on her face. "A rare opportunity has come up, and, acting in your best interests, I've decided for you to take it."

The chilled metal of the flatware felt deathly cold in Annika's fingers; she clutched it tightly, her small knuckles slowly turning a bone-white from the possessive force of her grip.

Shona was in a terrible state of excitement. "You are a sensible girl, aren't you? Don't answer that, of course you are. I always knew you were smart. And that's why I know that you'll understand our predicament."

Annika watched her.

"The predicament being, of course, that I cannot keep you on the farm any longer due to . . . expenses. So I contacted a lovely young man—he's an NCR Emissary, would you believe it—and he's agreed to take you off my hands."

The quiet horror of those words struck her soul, seemingly sealing Annika's fate. She felt her throat thicken with emotion, a small noise making its way through the constricted passage of her mouth. "The—the NCR doesn't believe in slavery."

Shona looked deeply offended at that. "This _isn't_ slavery—it's a business transaction."

Annika glared at her coldly, feeling her insides freeze over. She couldn't quite swallow back the indignation that welled up in her like a dry tidal-wave of nausea. "You can't sell me," she hissed. "I am not your—your _property_."

"Well you've sure been acting like property these past few months!" Shona snapped back, rising up from her chair with a clatter. "Troublesome as you are, you've been a small asset to this farm, and I'll be damned if I give you away for free."

Annika's eyes widened, becoming as large as teacups, and she stared up at Shona with a hurt look of betrayal. The pained expression swiftly turned to anger, though, soon becoming a flat, dull look filled with an immeasurable amount of hatred.

Shona raised her hands, backtracking quickly with an affable smile plastered onto her face. "You must consider it a learning experience, Annika, girlie. This man has promised to take care of you and—"

Annika slammed the fork onto the table. "You can't sell me!" There was outrage in her voice, in her eyes, in the way her hands twitched about incessantly. "I won't let you sell me off!"

She made to move away, quickly deciding that she wanted nothing more than to flee back to the safety of the cellar. It was secure there, and quiet. _She's just joking. This isn't real. I'll fight her, and then she'll have to drag me out kicking and screaming._

This place was nothing short of hell. But it was the only home that she had left, and Annika knew that if she ran off into the Mojave Desert, she wouldn't last a day before the coyotes or a passing NCR patrol got her.

Shona quickly stepped in, blocking Annika when she clumsily darted to the left like a wounded sparrow. Her large hands shot out, roughly grabbing her around the wrists and, with a bruising, twisting, movement, shoved her over the table and onto her stomach in a surprising feat of strength.

Annika cried out in pain and tried to push back, her fingers desperately scrabbling for something to grab onto. "Let me go!"

She was instantly silenced by Shona, whose looming face had contorted into an ugly expression that was devoid of anything remotely human. "I am trying to help you!" she shouted, latching onto the back of Annika's head with pudgy, outstretched fingers. "You goddamn ungrateful little puppy!"

"Don't—"

"Shut up! Shut up! This was supposed to be something special, child, but you just—just _ruined_ it. Foolish, foolish girl!"

Annika stifled back her sobs, her breath coming hot and fast, almost uncontrollable. Her hands uselessly grabbed at the tablecloth, her eyes red and fearful. "Let me go! I'm—I'm sorry!"

"Shut up!" Shona raised up, then violently smashed Annika's head against the plate of deviled eggs. Splotches of blood splattered the table, decorating the nearby dishes in a light mist of red. "I am tired of your shit! I can call you what I want, when I want, you drugged-up terrorist! For all intents and purposes, I _own_ you. I took your scrawny ass in when I should have handed you over to the NCR authorities. _That_ is called compassion. None one cares about you except for me, and—and the audacity!"

She rammed her free hand onto the other side of Annika's head and leaned down with a malevolent snarl. "Your blasted heritage is like your heart—as black as sin. But even coals can become diamonds, and I intend to make you one before I sell you off, you miserable charlatan!"

Shona never saw the girl's hand disappear for but a second—and, as a violent consequence, she instantly deflated when Annika stabbed her in the thigh with a dulled butter-knife.

Annika clumsily whirled around, stumbling backwards into the table with a shout. She quickly grabbed another knife without thinking—this one was a sharp-looking cleaver that had a wickedly purple glimmer to it—and sliced off Shona's left hand—for the woman had made as if to grab her again.

Time ground to a deathly halt.

Blood dripped from her shaking fingers in a steady stream, and Annika watched dumbly as Shona slumped to the ground with a hoarse cry, cradling the stump that was her right hand.

She shuddered, feeling strange and lightheaded as the blood slipped down her arm, cherry-red and poisonous-looking. The hideous, slippery warmth of it scalded her clammy skin, spreading to her insides until she felt it everywhere like it was a virus, turning her into a burning inferno.

Annika touched her forehead with the back of a hand, shivering and falling to her knees. The bright, unquenchable fire that had so violently seared her bones had now suddenly morphed into a deep, deep coldness. It washed over her, extinguishing the heat and freezing her in place. Her face went white beneath the blood and grime as her expression changed into a horrible deformity.

She leaned back against a chair, kicking away the severed hand in the process. She quickly closed her eyes, fighting the urge to hyperventilate. She felt pale, and wan, and sick to her stomach, and her chest kept tightening until she felt that she could not breathe.

When she opened her eyes again, everything had shifted. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, and the knife had skittered away from her grasp. _I must have blacked out,_ Annika thought, looking around at the kitchen with a strange flatness. _I must have blacked out, and now I'm going into shock._

She slowly sat up, sinking back onto her heels and groaning at the protest that her muscles made. She must have moved too quickly, for her stomach suddenly upheaved. Annika moaned softly and crouched over in a fetal position, cradling her arms and puffing out her cheeks as she dry-heaved from the vertigo that turned the whole room into a dizzying tailspin.

She waited until her insides settled before moving again, biting her knuckles and swallowing back the thin bile that rose up in her throat. Annika scrubbed at her mouth, sitting upright and breathing erratically as her feverish eyes eventually landed on Shona.

The woman lay there, huddled on her side. Her dress was soaked in a large puddle of blood, and her face looked ashen and slack with tension, and the fingers on her remaining hand were purple and stiff. She seemed barely alive, her mouth twitching only a little. Were it not for the desperate light in her fading eyes, Annika would have thought her dead already.

Annika folded her hands in her lap, a strange look on her face.

Shona's sunken eyes flicked to hers. They were angry and alive and vibrant with hatred. It was such an odd, haunting look, so dissimilar compared to the rest of her bloated and veiny face, that Annika found it extremely difficult to hold her vitriolic gaze.

She shook her head, struggling to her feet. "If I am a terrorist, then so be it. But that—that makes you one, too." Annika paused, a troubling look on her face. "You weren't supposed to die. I didn't mean for you to die. I only—I only stabbed you in the leg. You can't die from that." Her voice cracked, and she fell into silence.

There was no response.

Annika felt apart from herself and incredibly alone as she stared down into the dying eyes of Shona and saw a strange reflection. Slowly, she turned, and saw Missy standing in the doorway.

"Run," Missy breathed, her eyes wild. "You better fuckin' run like hell."

Annika did not need to be told twice, as something snapped inside her. Missy's howls followed her out into the backyard as she fled from the house, her bare feet drumming an erratic rhythm, pounding into the soil and dragging up chalky clouds of brown dust.

Outside, the sky was a steely white, matching the blood and bruises than ran in the house with a festive air of mockery.


	12. Chapter 11

_**A/N:** Sorry for the wait. I am in the middle of __house hunting/getting my house ready to sell/looking at building a house, and let me tell you, it's nothing like HGTV makes it out to be. That being said, if anything major happens or I start to take longer with updates, I'll make sure to post something on my author page thingy. You know._

 **Michelle:** _I can't say that it is Vulpes, but I can't say that it isn't, either :) Also, there will be references to the companions in NV, and one may or may not show up at the end. I didn't decide to pair Annika/Joshua because of well, ahem, looks. I do believe he is in his late forties/early fifties, and it'll be brought up in later chapters. Their attraction won't be conventional, to say the least. Thanks for reviewing!_

* * *

 _Wake up._

 _Come on, Annika, you have to wake up._

 _They're here._

Fear stabbed her heart, icing it over and shattering her nightmare as Annika bolted awake. Sweat plastered her slick brow as she gasped for breath, an erratic heartbeat thudding wildly in her ears. She stumbled to the chilled floor, recklessly shoving things out of her way and struggling upright.

There was a shuffling noise behind her. "Mmphf—what's happening?"

Annika wrapped thin arms around her middle, her feet padding against the creaky floorboards as she clumsily maneuvered around the furniture in the leaky fishing lodge that they'd taken shelter in. "It's nothing, Waking-Cloud. Go back to sleep."

"That didn't sound like nothing," Waking-Cloud protested half-heartedly, muffling a yawn. She looked like she was in something of a daze, her eyes still soft and dreamy from sleep.

Annika glanced at her, drawing in a quick intake of breath. "It was just a nightmare. I—I didn't mean to wake you."

Waking-Cloud rolled over with a small grunt. "Hhm. M'what was it about?" Her words were slurred together, and she seemed content to awkwardly lay there, half-entangled in blankets. She became so still that Annika thought that she'd fallen asleep again, but she quickly sat upright when Annika didn't respond, kicking the blankets off her legs and giving a long, feline-like stretch.

Annika rubbed her face with clammy hands, her mouth pulling into a troubled frown. "It was just a stupid nightmare. It didn't mean anything." It seemed that she was trying to convince herself, and was failing, for the tone of her voice lacked any real conviction.

Waking-Cloud canted her head at her, a curious look in her half-awake eyes. "All dreams happen for a reason. They are gifts from the Father to guide us for the future."

Annika's lip curled back into a small grimace. "Then my future doesn't look very promising."

"Let me help you."

The corners of her mouth twitched slightly, and her scowl turned into an almost indulgent smile. "Go back to sleep, Waking-Cloud. This is something that I have to struggle with on my own."

Waking-Cloud shook her head firmly and said, "I cannot."

Annika brushed back her curls with a cold hand. "And why can't you?"

Waking-Cloud pointed to the windows. "It is dawn," she said, a tired smile lingering in her voice.

Annika glanced outside, her fingertips pressing against the sagging windowsill. "So it is."

Tendrils of fog snaked through the air and hovered over the gurgling river outside like a blanket, as if the trees were breathing it in. Everything looked dull, covered by a soft shade of grey that seemed to blur the canyons together. But at the very edges of the sky, a tinge of pink was slowly stealing its way across the horizon. It lent a certain vitality to the world, steadily repainting and refreshing the muted landscape with quick brush-strokes of colour as the seconds ticked by unchecked. It seemed infectious, and soon the trees and flowers were shrugging off the last of the chilly pre-dawn air, opening their buds and shaking away the dewdrops in anticipation of the coming day. Before too long the entire sky was a riotous burst of blues, golds, and streaks of lavender.

Waking-Cloud got up and stood behind her, scrubbing the grit from her eyes. She stood quietly for a moment, watching the sunrise with a calm, peaceful look. Then she broke the silence and said, "Are you ready to see the Sorrows' camp?"

Annika gave a sombre smile. "The real question is, are the Sorrows ready to meet me?"

* * *

She could smell coffee, and the distinct tang of cigarettes.

"This way," Waking-Cloud beckoned, lightly stepping over a rocky outcrop and wading through a shallow stream. She briefly disappeared into the conifers before reappearing around a slight bend in the canyons, a mere pinprick against the harsh rays of sunlight.

Annika followed, feeling water splash against her trousers and seep into her scuffed boots. Her socks were already soaked, and they awkwardly clung to her feet as she trudged around the corner.

The Sorrows Camp was nestled in a long, deep valley that cut across the southeast like an unsightly scar. The tall ravine seemed to go on for miles, twisting this way and that and looping around primordial moss-covered trees and tumbling waterfalls. Mud-coloured tepees and dismantled lean-tos were stashed in small, inconspicuous niches wherever Annika turned to look, camouflaged into the dusty background by noonday shadows and rocky overhangs, while wooden walkways and rope bridges connected overhead to a labyrinth of caves that were burrowed into the canyon walls opposite.

Her eyes were wide for a moment, almost startled, as she took in the drab neatness that was the camp. Despite only being here for a short time, the Sorrows had managed to make it seem homey and settled-in, as if they'd lived here for years. The dark irony that it was more of a defensible place than the Dead Horses' previous camp did not escape Annika.

The passive tribals could easily remain here for the rest of their lives, provided that they were willing to fight for it.

Annika held no doubt in her mind that Daniel had already made his decision, even if it was still a subconscious one. If he had truly wanted to keep the Sorrows away from warfare and preserve their innocence, then he would have persuaded them to flee already, before it was too late.

Instead, here they remained like a sore thumb that refused to go away, and which stuck out because of its vulnerability. They were endangering themselves more and more with each passing day, yet Daniel couldn't seem to bring himself to leave Joshua behind.

If he did, then Joshua would surely lead the Dead Horses into a slaughterhouse. But if he didn't . . .

It was a ridiculous sort of loyalty, Annika thought, hiking her duffel bag over her shoulder. _Ridiculous, but admirable._

It was surprising to her that Daniel hadn't already come to the same conclusion.

She found him sitting near a campfire, crouching back on his knees as he fried something over the flames in a black, flat-looking pan. A native smoked a pipe next to him, sitting cross-legged, the vapours from the pipe mingling with the smoke from the fire and distending above their heads in a sweet-smelling cloud.

Daniel glanced up when she approached, hearing her soft, muffled footsteps. A surprised look flashed across his face at seeing her there, but it was quickly replaced by a warm smile.

"Welcome," he greeted, tipping the brim of his hat back. He brushed his hands together and gestured for her to sit. "Would you like some breakfast?"

Annika gave him a half-smile, rubbing her arms as she mimicked the smoking native and plopped down next to Daniel, crossing her legs and running a hand through her hair. "What are you cooking?"

"Just some toast and oatmeal. Oh, and Bighorner bacon." Daniel picked up another pot, this one covered with a cast-iron lid and simmering at the bottom. "You have to let the oatmeal cook on its own, only stirring occasionally. I suppose it's a good thing that the little pre-war packages they come in aren't too irradiated, because they don't taste half-bad, and I find myself eating more than I should."

He lifted the lid and Annika peered over the rim, where a brown, goopy mess lazily bubbled and popped from the heat.

"Does everyone else eat with you?" Annika asked, darting a glance at him. There didn't seem to be nearly enough food for more than a couple of people, and Annika hazily recalled Joshua telling her that most of the natives in Zion were afraid of pre-war things, from cars to liquor to toy lunchboxes.

Both Waking-Cloud and Follows-Chalk seemed to be the exception. And, according to what Waking-Cloud had told Annika on the way to the Sorrow's camp, they were both the deputies of Joshua and Daniel, respectively.

Daniel laughed a little. "Ah—no, no they don't. I usually eat by myself."

"Usually?"

"Sometimes I have company. But it's not nearly as enjoyable as yours." As soon as the words left his mouth, Daniel flushed a light pink and looked away. "I mean, wh-what I meant to say was—"

"It's alright," Annika said, smiling awkwardly and reaching over to pick up a piece of toast. "I enjoy your company too."

Daniel flashed her a shy grin, a soft warmth in his eyes. He stirred the glowing embers of the fire with a stick and reached over and grabbed a clay cup by his feet, drinking a steamy mixture from it that fogged up his glasses.

Annika bit into the toast, leaning back. "That smells bitter."

"Would you like some?" Daniel asked, holding out the cup to her almost eagerly, looking relieved at the change of subject.

She wrinkled her nose slightly. "That depends on what it is."

"It's home-brewed coffee. Here, taste it."

Annika hesitantly wrapped her fingers around his, gently taking the mug from him before glancing at the dark black murkiness of the liquid. It smelled earthy and sour. She cradled it between her hands, glancing at Daniel quickly before blowing at the steam and taking a large swig.

She coughed it back up, her throat screaming at the burning taste of it. Her large eyes began to water as she glared sharply at Daniel. "What was _that?"_

Daniel merely smiled. "I told you, it's coffee."

"And you brewed it yourself?"

He nodded.

She started to splutter, sounding like a dying automobile as she thrusted the cup back into Daniel's hands. He laughed at her expression, his eyes crinkling around the corners. He set the cup aside, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling.

Annika graciously accepted a beaded canteen that Daniel claimed was safe, waiting until he finally stopped laughing before taking a quick swallow and cleansing her palate with a mouthful of cold, cold water.

"All joking aside, I am surprised you're here," Daniel said, his friendly expression becoming more serious and thoughtful. "Joshua hinted that you might join Waking-Cloud on one of her forages, and we set up routes for her to follow in the event that you did, but he never said anything about you actually coming here."

Annika slowly lowered the canteen.

"Not that I'm not happy seeing you," Daniel hastily added, "I am. It's just that Joshua never does things . . . spontaneously."

"You're saying he sent me here for a reason."

Daniel hesitated. "I don't mean anything by it."

Annika looked away, nervously playing with her fingers. "I know. But you might."

"I might?" He seemed puzzled, restlessly stirring at the oatmeal with a frown.

"Joshua, he—I did get sent here for a reason. Two, I think." Annika reached behind her, dragging out the dusty duffel bag. She unzipped it with fluttering hands, tearing open the compartments and dumping what was inside all over their laps.

Daniel reached down and picked up a walkie-talkie, his face strange and oddly contorted. He carefully turned it around in his hands, studying it closely even though it was obvious what it was. Annika fidgeted, waiting. Then he let out a soft, belated sigh, and a look of resignation flitted across his eyes before his face closed up.

He looked at her queerly, tiredly. His friendly manner was all but gone. "And what was the other reason?"

* * *

Annika touched the string of feathers in her hair, smiling at what Waking-Cloud was saying as they descended one of the natural stone ramps in the camp. She'd changed into something lighter due to the oppressive heat, though she considered it to be relatively modest compared to the others; a pair of laced sandals, a brightly colored _pareu_ that swung down between her legs, and a thick, wrapped breastband with a high-throated choker that was snugly collared up to her chin.

If anything, she certainly felt like a native.

A day and a half had passed since she last talked to Daniel, and while she'd been welcomed rather warmly into the Sorrows' camp by their pot-bellied and winking chief, Annika felt oddly cold at Daniel's tepid reaction to her news.

He didn't actively avoid her, but he looked at her differently now whenever they bumped into each other. Forlornly, franticly. As if Annika were a problem that he desperately wanted to solve and put away, but he felt forbidden from doing so. Like it wasn't his place, like something was holding him back from setting things in order.

Still, Daniel let her do as she pleased, which showed that he still trusted her to a certain extent, and that he at least didn't think her capable of repeating another Bighorner incident.

 _In fact,_ Annika thought, stopping as they turned around a curving bend, _Daniel didn't really seem upset about what happened to the Dead Horses._ He had, of course, inquired after the natives' safety and had seemed genuinely concerned, but once that was assured, he'd become calm and tranquil, only his eyes showing that they were curiously bright.

Annika suddenly stopped. _He must think that what happened is some sort of ultimatum, and that it'll force Joshua into a decision._ She frowned, glancing over at Waking-Cloud who was already at the bottom of the ramp, patiently waiting for her.

Annika bit back a sudden wave of irrational anger, unclenching her hands. _He has every right to think that. He only wants peace for Zion. Besides, he didn't even do anything. Not yet._

But the realization that he was just like everyone else in the world was disheartening. She'd thought him to be different. Annika ran a hand through her hair, feeling confused and disappointed.

 _You thought that Daniel would eventually give in to Joshua. And maybe he will._ But those bright eyes had been scheming something that night. They had to have been. Now he was acting too calm and relaxed to _not_ be planning something.

 _Get it together, Annika. Whose side are you even on?_

She turned the corner, then suddenly dug her heels into the ground and came to an abrupt stop. Less than thirty feet away stood Joshua, his back to her, talking with Daniel. Arguing, more like. Daniel's face was deeply flushed under the brim of his hat, and Joshua's posture seemed to go even stiffer. Despite the coolness from the nearby waterfalls they both looked feverish and perturbed.

Waking-Cloud gently nudged her on, catching onto Annika's elbow with her hand and pushing. She walked as if in a trance. Heat enveloped her cheeks as they passed them, almost close enough to touch. She ducked her head, too shy to look at them—though she heard them well enough.

"I can't believe you'd do something like that, Joshua." This came from Daniel. He was throwing his words around like someone who was hurling a very sharp stone at a person that they disliked. His eyes caught with Annika and he stopped, flustered and surprised. "It—it was a very . . . irresponsible . . . thing . . . to do."

She drew in an embarrassed intake of breath, leaning on Waking-Cloud and turning her head away. Her eyes glittered and a new tension surrounded them, uncomfortable and strange. _They're talking about me._

She was lightly coated in a film of mist by the spray from the churning waterfalls, but it did nothing to stop the warmth that came over her like a sickness. She felt lightheaded, feeling Joshua's eyes on her, burning into her even as he spoke to Daniel. She completely missed his response, so bizarrely did she feel as she veered off, giddy with relief and darting to the winding inlet of the stream, her hands clammy and her heartbeat ricocheting off her chest.

 _What is happening to me?_

* * *

She hated the knowing look on Waking-Cloud's face as she headed out of the cave, a half full bottle of whiskey in her hand. She found Joshua by a campfire, sitting with one leg splayed out and reading a waterlogged Bible.

 _How many of those does he have?_ Annika thought, slowly approaching him. She was practically on top of him before he noticed her, swallowed as she was by the encroaching dusk. The dancing flames lit her hair ablaze, and the whiskey took on an ambrosia-like quality as it sloshed around in the bottle.

Joshua regarded her quietly, laying the book down. She felt herself frozen by those sapphire eyes, pinned in place by the dark emotions swirling in his gaze.

"Hi," Annika said, shuffling her feet nervously. She felt hot and sick again. "Um, how—how are you?"

"What did you do this time?"

She made a half-choking noise. "Sorry, what?"

"You're practically steaming with guilt."

Annika blinked stupidly and stood there like an idiot. "Oh."

His lips twitched, and for just a moment his eyes softened. "Relax, I'm teasing you."

She laughed, the sound stifled and quickly dying off. "Oh, yeah. Yeah. I knew that." She shuffled her feet and looked down, then practically thrusted the bottle under his nose. "So—do you want some?"

He looked at her oddly, then gently pushed the bottle away. "I don't drink."

"Oh."

"Besides, aren't you a little young to be drinking hard liquor?"

Annika shook her head, still standing. "Hardly. My mother had me teething on whiskey since I was a baby."

"That seems . . . unorthodox."

Annika's face suddenly turned mischievous, all traces of her nerves gone. "You should have seen what the other babies teethed on."

Joshua glanced at the fire. "I can only imagine." There was a dry humour in his voice that left her smiling. At least he was in good spirits.

"So why don't you drink? I mean, there has to be a reason, right?"

Silence.

"Sorry—uh, sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

When Joshua looked up, his expression was far less animated than before. His blue eyes were now dark, bordering on a deep black, and Annika felt started by their sudden depth and richness. She could have stood there staring at them all night.

Joshua said, "We should go somewhere else to talk. There are things we need to discuss."

He stretched out his legs and stood up, towering over her a moment before turning and heading off into the darkness. He didn't stop to pause or look back, but Annika had the distinct feeling that he wanted her to follow.

Her heart felt like it was going to burst out of her chest. Annika trudged after him, stumbling around in the dark with eyes that were as large and wide as teacups. She followed Joshua at a distance, careful not to get too close.

Their destination was a short ways ahead, up a steep pathway and ending in a small alcove that was nestled snugly into the crevice of a cliff. The darkness was absolute as she floundered into the entrance of the pitch-black recess, squinting her eyes and waving her hands in front of her face.

Annika jumped when she walked into something sharp and scratchy. It was strangely . . . solid. "Joshua?" She said quietly, "Is that you?"

A bright light flared up before her eyes, casting shadows everywhere and illuminating Joshua's mummified face. He was very close, as her nose brushed up against the fabric of his shirt when she moved. She jumped back and quickly turned away, taking in the small space that he'd led her to.

"This is a nice place," Annika said, biting her lip apprehensively.

"It used to be a sightseeing spot, back before the war." Joshua hung the flickering lantern on a peg that was bored into the craggy outcrop above their heads. He looked at her, then quietly stepped aside, and Annika saw what he'd been standing in the way of.

Two silvery-white chains dangled from the ceiling, supported by little metal eyelets that were dug into the rock overhead. At the very end of the chains hung a brown porch-swing which swung back and forth, back and forth in the warm breeze.

Annika tilted her head, unable to stop the slightly smile spilling across her features. She approached the swing with an irrepressible gleam of excitement in her eyes, faintly registering that Joshua was watching her as she climbed up onto the swing and kicked her legs around, feeling the swing bounce and jiggle in the wind.

"I haven't been on one of these in years," Annika said, glancing at him. "Not since I was a kid."

"Do you like it?" His face was like a steel mask, and when he spoke he sounded strangely distorted, as if from speaking far away. He was acting as a nervous schoolboy would, and his voice was deep and earnest with some unnamed emotion that was too subtle to be caught without paying close attention.

She clutched the bottle of whiskey even tighter. "Yeah. I do."

"Good." Joshua walked over and sat down next to her, stuffing his hands into his pockets. The swing was barely big enough for the both of them, so their legs ended up grazing against each other with each movement of the wind.

The moon was now ripe and full as they both looked at it in silence, shining over the landscape and making the lamp unnecessary. A light mist had coated the lush valley, fogging up the canyon and tall aspen trees so that everything was covered in a shimmering, transparent haze. There was not a word, not a call, not a peep. The more they sat there, the more oppressive it became.

Her cheeks warmed when she realised that neither of them had spoken for at least ten minutes. She had forgotten why they were there, if only briefly, and he was obviously waiting for her to say something first.

Annika cleared her throat. "I think we should play a game," she said nervously, suddenly chattering away like a squirrel when he glanced at her. "I mean, you wanted to talk about things, right? Well, we can take turns asking each other questions—any questions—and—and the other person can either answer or take a drink."

Her voice wilted and died off when he said nothing in response, and her heartbeat was a thundering pulse in her ears. Abruptly, she slapped her forehead, looking slightly abashed and blushing even further. "I, uh—I forgot. You don't drink. We could—"

"That sounds fine," Joshua said, quickly cutting her off.

She looked taken aback and more than a little skeptical at his brusque reply. "Wait, it does?"

"But I won't be drinking," he added, as if it were obvious.

Annika paused, then nodded slowly. "So—so what happens when you don't want to answer one of my questions?"

He made a noise that sounded similar to a laugh catching in his throat. "I don't see that happening."

"Really? Even if I ask a really, really stupid one?"

Joshua's gaze was hard and piercing. "That depends. Are you going to ask me stupid questions?"

Annika felt herself shrivel under his stare. "No."

He laid his arm on the back of the swing. "That settles it, then."

Annika nodded, then turned away from him and unscrewed the whiskey bottle. She tilted it to her lips and let the alcohol trickle down her throat. Her eyes started to water from the taste, and her face turned a bright red as she fought the urge to cough it back up.

Joshua was looking at her, surprised. "I haven't even asked you a question yet."

Annika smiled, but it was more of a grimace. "I'm just warming up."

"Then I'll spare both of us and let you go first," Joshua replied.

"Ok." She stared at the bottle, then quickly glanced at him again. "Ok."

It was dead quiet for a few minutes.

He sighed. "Anytime in the next hour would be ideal."

"Why don't you drink?" Annika blurted out. "Is it a religion thing?"

Joshua let out a small chuckle. "You couldn't have picked a different question?"

"Wait—I'm sorry, I shouldn—"

He raised up a hand, "No. I told you I'd answer your questions, and I will. It's just . . . a difficult subject to bring up."

The realisation of what he was implying dawned in Annika's eyes. "You mean to say that it happened when you were . . . ?"

Joshua refused to look at her, staring straight ahead. "I had never drank much or indulged in . . . debauchery when I was younger, seeing as I was cut from Mormon cloth. But that quickly changed when the Legion started to claim its first big victories. It was like a massive whirlpool. Edward and I became—well, the word savage seems incredibly underwhelming compared to what we did.

"The changes were subtle, at first. A drink here, a whore there. A spliced cocktail and a little bloodletting. Then it got worse, leading to sacrifices and—and eventually slavery." Joshua looked like he'd just swallowed a lump of concrete. "I suppose it was the sudden freedom that caused it. Or maybe the Devil was always inside of me."

Annika stared at him, clutching the bottle with white knuckles. She felt bit sick inside listening to him fess up to his old transgressions, as if she were violating something very intimate and private. But she was disturbingly curious, too, since she didn't think that another chance like this would come along.

He hunched over, slouching and clasping his hands together, his face twisted and contorted underneath the bandages. "And then, the drinks and the drugs didn't work for me anymore. I got angry, lashed out, and took higher dosages until I was sick almost every night. Finally, one morning I woke up and decided that if I couldn't enjoy the benefits of those vices, then no one could."

The words seemed to clawed out of his mouth by force, tumbling and whirling around them until it felt like there was no more air left to breathe. They were like a thick, heavy fog, clouding over and taking a few moments to dissipate.

Annika stared at him, feeling just as breathless as he looked. She looked slightly stunned at his blatant honesty, quickly recovering with a shake of her head. "And Caesar agreed?"

"Surprisingly. He never much cared for it in the first place, only took a passable interest in it. He preferred the more . . . bloodier aspects of our triumphs. Edward was probably relieved when I told him, seeing as our troops were starting to become to become lazy and unprincipled."

Annika snorted, covering her mouth with the back of a hand and blushing. Joshua glanced at her, his lips twitching into a wry smile. "I know that it sounds ridiculous, but at the time it was true."

She couldn't help smiling back. "I hate to say it, but your principles were kinda in the wrong places."

"I won't argue with that."

"Jesus," Annika said, the reality of what he just told her setting in. She leaned back, her chest feeling heavy and tight. "I can't believe you just told me all that."

"You did ask."

Her face turned red, her ears practically steaming with guilt as Joshua turned to watch her more closely. She suddenly felt incredibly guilty, as he had told her the whole truth, as much as it had pained him—and by the look on his face it _had_ —and he was likely expecting her to do the same.

"I guess I wasn't expecting an answer quite like _that_. I must have sounded pretty insensitive by bugging you about it in the first place. I should have chosen a different question."

Annika bit back a groan at how stupid she sounded and took a large swallow of the whiskey, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. _Suck it up. You asked for this, you idiot._

He looked contemplative, arching his brows at her questioningly. "And you're drinking now because?"

Annika almost screwed the cap back on, then thought better of it. "I figured I'd take one for the team before you ask me something. Your answer was pretty depressing."

"That would sum up a good portion of my life."

She tsked, feeling the heady rush of the alcohol burn her lips. "I never took you for a moper."

He chuckled again, causing her to look at him. "I suppose it's my turn in this little game," he said, his scratchy voice announcing that it was anything but.

She waved a hand. "I'm waiting with bated breath."

Joshua smiled, then said without preamble, "What are you?"

"That's a loaded question," Annika replied, a forced humor in her tone. "I'm a cou—"

"I know _who_ you are," Joshua interrupted, his eyes suddenly burning and impatient. "I asked _what_ you are."

Her face was pinched. "I don't understand the difference."

"I would think that it's easy. What are you to the people of New Vegas?"

She paused, thought for a minute, then said, "Dead."

"Amusing."

She gave a reluctant sigh, picking at a nonexistent piece of lint on her skirt. "I was anything they wanted me to be, if they even saw me at all. I was just a kid, so I got away with a lot of stuff."

"But you're not a child anymore," he reminded her.

She looked up at him sharply, her lips parted. "You think so?"

He made a noise in the back of his throat. "Though sometimes you still act like it."

Annika shook her head. "You called me a child, when we first met."

Joshua smiled. She noticed that his teeth looked white and incredibly sharp in the pale moonlight. Why did she notice that? "I didn't know you then."

"And you do now?" Annika retorted, instantly regretting her cutting tone.

He looked at her thoughtfully. "Not half as well as I should."

 _Way to make things awkward,_ she thought, feeling her pulse pick up. She studied his face despite knowing that it was probably a bad idea. "Do . . . " she started, her conviction wavering, "do you consider me a threat?"

The look he that gave her was more than answer enough. It was a silly question, in retrospect, but she couldn't help but feel disappointed.

"I consider everything a threat," Joshua said neutrally. It was a very ambiguous and frustrating response, and she found herself talking back before she could stop.

"So why am I still here? And don't give me that bullshit thing about needing my help. Any of the natives would be more than happy to get you what you want."

Annika was vaguely aware that her words were slurring together. She felt airy and light, and when she leaned into Joshua he tensed, but didn't pull away. It was impossibly to say whether he would have allowed the contact had she not been semi-inebriated.

 _I haven't been this drunk in a while_. It was like she was drifting on a fluffy cloud, and the only thing that kept her anchored was Joshua's arm pressing into hers. He was very warm.

"Why am I here?" she said, her liquid eyes staring insistently up at his.

Joshua looked at her, his face glassy and still. When he spoke, the mask broke, shattering and showing the raw and confused man beneath. His voice was tight, and his fiery, half-feral eyes were nothing short of intense in the dim moonlight. "I don't know."

 _I don't either,_ Annika thought, but she didn't dare say that aloud. To do so would stop whatever was occurring between them. Her chest was feeling funny again, and when her lips got caught on her teeth, Joshua's eyes darted towards them for half a second.

She sat there, expectantly waiting for something to happen, stuffing her hands under her legs and perching precariously like a swallow about to take flight. Her flushed cheeks dully shone in the thin lamplight, and her eyes were impossibly wide as they looked up at him with startling clarity. The whiskey bottle was completely forgotten.

His breathing was more ragged now, his nostrils flaring beneath the linen bandages. _Who are you under all that?_

Annika wanted to know. She had to know. It was a desperate burning that made her fingers itch. A magnetism that unconsciously drew them closer. She took a deep, stilted breath and dared to look at him, actually _look_.

It wasn't a pretty sight. But staring at him, dissecting his face, she saw faint traces of the man beneath; a tall, straight nose, high cheekbones, and the edges of a curving widow's peak that would normally have been full of thick, wild hair. He had the expression of a man who, being constantly persecuted, had become cruel in the absence of mercy and love, hiding it well except in moments like these. And she wanted to change that.

Annika saw what he was, what he had been, and they coalesced together into something that watched her, carefully, inscrutably. At that moment, despite his deformed ugliness, he had never looked more beautiful.

She was hypnotized, bewitched. Her skin was flushed, and a soft, tingling sensation spread all over her like lightning until her lips were burning with the blistering taste of something heady and raw. Annika quickly realised that one of his hands was touching hers, their fingers curved together in a concave of trembling nerves, while the other was gently brushing over the hollow of her throat.

When Joshua tore himself away, a heavy rock settled in her stomach, and she suddenly felt ill. The abruptness of his departure made the chill of the evening all the more apparent. The loss of warmth sobered her, making her reach for the bottle blindly.

A thick silence had descended over them. Joshua was hunched over again, his hands between his knees. "I shouldn't have done that." His voice was a strangled gasp, barely audible, throaty and gruff with some nameless emotion.

"But I liked it." She looked at him with feeling, shaking from the cold and fighting back the surge of tears that threatened to spill over her cheeks. She absolutely refused to cry over something so silly.

There was a trace of dark humour in his voice when he said, "I'm a bad man, Annika. Things like this shouldn't happen between us."

Annika lifted her chin up defiantly, her eyes ablaze in anger and nerves. "You've changed. People can change. I know that personally from experience, Joshua."

"And how do you know that?" he said challengingly, his voice biting and harsh. "Since when did you become such an expert on knowing the extent of the human soul? On my soul?"

She ignored the bitterness in his eyes and grabbed his hand. "I know because Caesar is dead and you're still alive."

Joshua froze, unmoving and tense. A shadow of old pain was there, just behind the eyes as he said, "That's not possible."

"It is," Annika replied firmly. "You have to believe me. He was killed by a kitchen knife."

She regretted saying that as soon as the words left her mouth.

"How?" he demanded angrily, swinging to face her with a threatening expression that left her mouth dry. "How could you know that?"

It was a thoughtless slip of the tongue, and she couldn't take it back now. She couldn't pull her hand away, either; he was gripping it far too tight. Annika swallowed tightly, shoving her fear into a deep, dark corner of her mind as she stared him down. "I was there."

Joshua looked at her for a quiet, breathless moment, then laid his hand at the base of her throat again. This time there was no tenderness, and she could feel his fingers flex and push against her. She leaned back with a startled intake of breath, and he quickly moved with her, acting like a wounded animal that was seething and desperate to find out the truth before it was too late.

A hand darted out and grabbed onto the collar of his Kevlar vest, her nails clicking and scrabbling on the rough fabric. They sat there, their legs entwined and their lips a hair's breadth apart. Both of them were panting slightly, pressed up against each other. Were it not for the circumstances she would be feeling very differently.

She was suddenly hollow inside like a wooden doll, a deep sadness welling inside her and tightening her chest until she couldn't breathe. She fought with her tangled emotions, clumsily sorting them out in her head and praying that the growing cold would dispel the fear and elation on her face. They did not mix well together—they shouldn't mix at all, actually—and it left her confused and upset.

Annika willed him to believe her as she looked into his eyes, trying her best to be unafraid. She knew she'd succeeded when the strength of his grip suddenly slackened, and his head dipped to rest on her shoulder. A strange calmness settled over her then.

"See, Joshua," she said hoarsely, "I told you you'd changed."


End file.
